Reign of Fire
by The Black Sun's Daughter
Summary: Tristan will not allow Uther to raise Ygraine's son, even if that means dealing with vexing sorceresses and recalcitrant Dragonlords. And Arthur du Bois, raised far away from the bloodshed of the Purge, might well be the best hope for Camelot and the Princess Morgana. With, of course, some help from his own recalcitrant Dragonlord.
1. Seeds of the Future Sown in the Past

Tristan du Bois has taken up steel in the name of honour and family, in defence of king and kingdom. This is the first time he's ever done so in the name of vengeance, but there is nothing else for it. One way or another, he is going to kill Uther Pendragon. Crown be damned.

As he saddles his horse, hands trembling on the buckles, grief twists up in him, heavy and solid in the pit of his belly, a counter to the blaze of fury that is roaring away in his chest, high and hot as a wildfire. Tears sting in his eyes, blurring his vision, and he curses as he slips for the second time, swiping at his face with his sleeve. A wretched sob catches in his throat. Tristan leans against the mare's flank, head bowed until his brow is pressed against the firm leather saddle, gasping in great ragged breaths. Behind his closed lids, he can still see Ygraine as she was as a girl, young and fresh and beautiful, fair as a spring lily.

"Tristan."

His head comes up sharply, twisting towards the sound of that voice, that damned _voice._ In an instant, he can breathe again, and he draws his sword with a beautiful hiss of steel on leather. He'll have her head off first, practice for Uther. "Murderess, you let her die."

"Hold, my lord! If you ever held love for Ygraine, hold and hear me!" Nimueh cries as he strides towards her, holding up a hand. No magic sparkles in the air about her, and her slender fingers are visibly quivering.

Tristan raises his sword in warning, leveling the blade at her. High Priestess or not, she is not impervious to castle-forged steel. It may not kill her, but she will bleed nonetheless. And it will make him feel _enormously _better. "Stay there, and keep that forked tongue of yours in your mouth," he snarls. "I'll hear nothing from you. Get out of my way, or I will run you down."

"Then I will not speak. Just look." Nimueh reaches up and raises her hood, tilting her chin up to look at him, and Tristan hisses through his teeth. Her face is lurid white, lids flickering, and her eyes…her eyes are full of blood. The whites of her eyes are scarlet with it, bloody tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, sticking in her lashes. And when he brings the lantern closer, her pupils don't dilate, she doesn't blink from the brightness of it. "The price I've paid for my folly," she whispers, understanding his silence.

"What have you seen?" he asks in a low voice, lowering his sword to his side. He holds no faith with seers and prophets. Not because he has no faith in the gods—he's felt the grace of the Old Ones, and he has stood in places of mystery—but he knows the tongues of men and women are not so pure. However, he also can recognise their touch in this. One does not weep blood without good cause.

She takes a shuddering breath. In fact, every inch of her is shuddering like a sapling in strong wind; the silver bells and gemstone beads tied in her braids click and jingle softly against one another, she's trembling so hard. "Blood," she whispers. "The entire kingdom, drowning in blood and fire. Uther…he is blaming magic for Ygraine's death. Not only myself. Everyone. My sister priestesses, the Druids, even the Dragonlords. I cannot bear to think what he will do, but…the wrath of a king is a terrible thing, my lord."

"What do you want from me?"

"The child. He must not remain with Uther. He _mustn't." _She takes a step closer, hands reaching out for him, missing the first time she grasps for him, but when her hands curl around his arms, her grip is cold and clammy and firm as iron. "Tristan. Have no care for me, it matters not now, but for Ygraine, for the love we held for her…we must act. We cannot leave him with Uther."

The child. He had forgotten about the child. His beloved sister, all that is left of her is to be found in this boy. Ygraine's son. Tristan lets out a sharp breath and sheathes his steel, though he keeps his hand on the hilt. For as great and terrible as his rage is, suddenly the idea of leaving the babe in Uther's grasp makes bile rise in his throat. "Very well. But hear me, priestess." He takes her arm, digging his fingertips into the soft flesh of her bicep. "Should you play me false in this, I'll finish the task your gods have begun and scrape those eyes out of your skull. The rest of you, I'll leave for the wyverns," he warns, voice dark and intent.

Nimueh's voice is low and full of such aching sorrow, and he knows her tears are not only the result of her visions. "If we fail in this, my death is yours."

"Then let us go."

* * *

Camelot is the city of white walls, but in all truth, Tristan has never cared for it. It is too crowded, too dense and contained, as though the weight of it will smother him. He's been here only twice, for Uther's coronation and Ygraine's wedding. However, he does not need to know the citadel now; the enchantment that Nimueh has laid on him lights his path, if only to his eyes, a path of lingering brightness traced upon the air before him.

_If she has led me wrong, I'll haunt that hexing slattern until the next age,_ he thinks, slinking around a corner, making swift progress to the far end of the corridor before the guard turns back his way again. Supposedly, he won't be seen if they do happen to look his way, their attention sliding off him like grease, but in his experience, when someone looks at him, then he will be seen.

The nursery is surprisingly unguarded. The citadel is still in disarray, a tangled mess of conflicting emotion: relief at the birth of their prince, grief at the death of their queen, confused unease at the rage of their king. No one knows what to _do._ Still, he's heard snatches of conversation on his way through the citadel. Balinor and the other Dragonlords have fled the citadel with Kilgharrah; the Druid elders have been evicted from Uther's council. Nimueh is right. The wrath of a king is a terrible thing, and he is beginning to gain an idea of who that wrath will be aimed towards. Blood and fire.

When he eases open the door, the nursery is dark and quiet, the only light a single candle beside a woman, reading in a chair near a cradle. A wet nurse for the infant prince, no doubt, there to attend him should he wake. The wet nurse isn't a large woman, and she is giving no thought to her surroundings, not expecting anyone to have come past the guards. Easing up behind her, he slides an arm around her neck, tightening his grip before she can even get breath in to scream. She squirms against him, hands scrabbling at his arm uselessly; he can feel her feet kicking at his shins, jacquard slippers barely felt. He exerts only enough pressure to render her unconscious, loosening once she goes limp against him, and he pulls her aside, lying her in the antechamber. Hopefully Uther won't have her executed as well.

He steps up to the cradle, leaning over to peer in, bringing the candle closer. The babe is fast asleep, breathing almost imperceptibly, small chest rising and falling. His hair is white. An invisible band tightens around Tristan's chest when he sees that, even as a great warmth blooms in him, pressing against his ribs, his heart, as though it might well break him open. Ygraine had looked just the same when she was born, the first time he'd ever lain eyes on his sister. "Time to go, nephew," he murmurs.

If there are any gods who still listen to his prayers, they are certainly listening to him tonight, for he retraces his steps without pause, seeing hide nor hair of a single guard and without the babe stirring the slightest in the makeshift sling he's fashioned from his cloak. By the time the first toll of the warning bell sounds, he is outside of the city walls.

Nimueh is waiting for him at the edge of the Darkling Wood, lurking in the darkness. With her bloody eyes and drawn expression, she could be some terrible witch from a child's nightmare, ready to snatch up an unwary passerby to be butchered for her cook pot. "You have him."

It isn't a question, yet he nods, then answers aloud once he remembers she cannot see him. "Aye, I do."

"Well done, my lord. Now, quickly, the Dragonlords are moving towards the west shore, I will—" She takes a step towards him, her hands extended. As if to take the babe from him.

He takes a step back. "Did you think I would let you have him?" Tristan asks. The arrogance is almost humourous. Aren't priestesses meant to be humble? "My sister's son, he will stay with me." He shifts his grip on the babe, hearing him squeak faintly in his sleep, and again, he feels that great expansion in his chest, pressing against his heart. Raising his eyes from his nephew, he finds her bloodied gaze fixed on him, or rather, on a point somewhere beside his left ear, and he knows she shan't let this be. "What is it you want from him? I give no weight to your seer's scribbling, you know this. If it is something to do with your so-called prophecies, I will have you speak no word of it to me or to him."

"He will need to be taught. He must learn. He must not be left ignorant of the Old Religion."

Tristan touches the top of his nephew's soft head, stroking his thatch of silk-white hair with one fingertip. Just like Ygraine's. "You may teach him. That much, I'll allow. But he stays with me."

She turns her head slightly, blind eyes flicking about. A shaft of moonlight falls across her face, and in the strange wash-out of it, the scarlet in her gaze could almost be a trick of the light, and he can see the echo of beauty beneath her battered weariness. "Very well. The boy is yours. But _I_ will teach him."

"So be it. Now go on. Your work is not done in Camelot, I am certain. I'll be waiting with the Dragonlords at the western cliffs." A part of him wishes to take the boy and begone from this place entirely, priestess and all. However, he knows she will find him. Blind or not, she will surely see wherever he goes, the damn conjuring wench. Still. The priestess had been beloved of Ygraine. There must be something worthy of it, and he won't do her dishonour now.

A cool wind ruffles his hair as Nimueh conjures herself away, but he pays it no mind. "Arthur," he murmurs under his breath, rolling the name over. Ygraine had chosen the name, he knows. She'd written as such to him, months ago. Arthur, her little bear-prince. "Well, cub, shall we go?" Carefully shifting his hold, he reaches down and picks up his knapsack, easing the strap over his shoulder; all the possessions worth anything in his life, stowed in that one bag. All the rest…let Agravaine have it. His little brother has always had a desire to play lord of the manor.

Against his chest, little Arthur yawns and resettles against him, warm and soft.

"Game for the adventure, I see," he chortles. "Good lad. On we go to our new life."


	2. The Island of the Dragons

It doesn't occur to Arthur to wonder why it is he does not have a mother until he is some six years old.

He is walking along the shore in the shadow of Mynydd Tân, looking for cockles in the sand and watching the selkies play and sunbathe on the rocks, when he notices there's a family further down the beach, a woman and two younger children. From the bucket she carries and the small rakes they have, they're doing the same as him. He knows what a mother is, of course. However, he's never wondered why he doesn't have one, largely because it doesn't concern him. He cannot miss what he has never had, after all. Still, a part of him wonders why it is he seems to lack what so many others have.

It doesn't occur to him to ask the question until Nimueh comes to collect him for his lessons. She never comes to their cavern; he always goes to her or waits for her on the beach, though she doesn't like being seen by other people. Despite the sunny warmth, she wears a long red cloak with the hood up, sitting on a stony outcropping waiting for him. "Hello, Nimueh," he says, climbing up to sit beside her.

"Little prince," she greets in return. One hand drifts over until it rests atop his head, and she turns her head towards him. Under the faint shadow of her hood, her pink-pearl eyes drift at a point near his ear. "Are you ready for your lessons?"

Arthur plucks at a frayed spot in his trouser leg, frowning a little.

Her brows lift at his silence. "Yes?"

"Are you my mother?" he asks. She's the only woman he is ever around; it's reasonable to think so.

She gazes down at him with her clouded-over gaze, and a strange look passes across her face, fleeting as the passing shadow of a flying bird. "No. I am not," she replies at last, and her voice sounds raspier as well.

"Do I have one?"

"You do, but that is a question for your uncle to answer," she answers again before can ask if she knows who his mother is, then. A small smile curls over her lips, but she still looks sad to him. She withdraws her hand and stands up, reaching up to resettle her hood as the salty breeze snatches at it, walking up the beach.

Arthur sighs and slides off the rock, understanding the unspoken summons when he hears it, and follows her. He knows it is never wise to irritate the priestess, so he keeps his silence through his lessons. Today, she is teaching him about shapeshifters. Selkies, wereanimals, skinchangers, learning how to tell the difference between them in their different forms. Such are the lessons he receives from her—the ways of the Old Religion, the creatures who live by it, its laws and workings.

When he's learnt enough to satisfy her, she escorts him back to Uncle Tristan directly, as she always does. There is a creek near their cave. She never crosses it, though its only calf-deep at the shallowest point where he crosses. Uncle is waiting on the other side with a brace of ptarmigan slung over one shoulder. Arthur means to ask again about his mother with them both there, but Nimueh turns herself into a bird and flies away. Frowning, he rolls up his trouser legs and wades across to where Uncle waits for him.

"Have you annoyed the priestess again today?" he asks, deeply amused.

"No," Arthur grumbles. "I asked her about my mother."

Uncle's face changes, getting that same sad, shadowy look Nimueh had, and he sighs deeply. One of his big, rough hands comes to rest on the back of Arthur's neck, gently smoothing down his hair. "You're old enough. If you really want to know, cub, I'll tell you. Come on." They finish their walk back to the cave in silence. Once there, Uncle gestures for him to sit and goes about making supper for them; Arthur tries not to fidget, waiting, knowing that if he asks again, he'll be told about the value of patience. After he's handed his share of ptarmigan, Uncle sits down beside him. "Your mother was my sister. I loved her more than anyone."

He knows that, but he doesn't say anything, eating his supper obediently.

"You're very much like her. Fair and sweet, but with her edges, too. What is it you want to know so badly, hm?"

Arthur pauses, thinking. He doesn't know how many questions Uncle will answer tonight; sometimes he stops talking for no reason. Chewing his last bite of ptarmigan slowly, he licks the grease off his fingertips and asks, "Where is she? Why am I not with her?" He knows animals stay with their mothers when they're young. He's seen fawns with does, kits with vixens, cubs with sows. People aren't so different from beasts, so it stands that he should be with her.

Uncle sighs deeply. "She is dead, and she died a very long way from here."

"She's gone?" Arthur echoes in dismay. It doesn't quite grieve him, as he hasn't known anything of her before now, but it is disheartening to hear.

Uncle smiles a little at that, the corner of his mouth curling up. "Come here." He picks Arthur up and carries him outside. Tilting his head back, he points upwards at the night sky. "You see those stars there? That bright one? You know what that is, don't you?"

"Polaris," Arthur replies, pleased to know the answer but confused as to what this has to do with his mother.

"Yes. Do you know your constellations yet? Do you know what those stars are?" he asks, and Arthur shakes his head. "Well, those are your stars, cub. That's the Little Bear. And those ones there next to it? That's Mother Bear. She gave Little Bear the brightest star in all the sky so no matter what, no matter how dark it was, she could always find him. There's your mother. And as long as those stars are there, she's here. She'll always find you."

"When I die, will I go up to my stars, too? Like Mother did?" Arthur asks.

Uncle Tristan nods. "Of course. But that won't be for a long, long time. You're going to be old and grey and toothless before you go there," he chuckles, poking at Arthur's belly and ribs, making him squirm and giggle.

"Can we stay out here?"

"Aye, if you'd like."

As Uncle brings out their blankets, another question occurs to him. He knows that his hair is the same colour as Uncle Tristan's, he's seen strands of it when the tangles get combed out too roughly, or when it gets long enough to hang in his eyes, but they have no mirror, and the creek isn't still enough to hold a reflection. "What colour are my eyes?"

Uncle turns to look at him with his dark gaze and smiles. "Blue, little bear. Blue as hyacinths grow."

They sleep outside the cave that night, bundled up in a nest of blankets, and Arthur gazes at the shape of Mother Bear until sleep tugs too firmly to keep his eyes open. It isn't until he's sliding towards sleep that it occurs to him that the tales stop short.

He has no idea who his father is.

* * *

When the morning comes bright and clear, Uncle promises to teach him how to catch trout with his bare hands, and Arthur forgets the question for a long time.

As he grows older, Uncle Tristan teaches him many things, different from his lessons with Nimueh. He learns to catch fish, not only with his hands but with a line and hook. He learns to gather greens and roots. He learns which mushrooms and berries are poisonous and which are good to eat. He learns to read weather signs and track game. Uncle teaches him to use weapons, first a simple sling, but then with a bow and even a short spear. Eventually, he will begin learn to use the steel longsword that has been in the back of their cavern as long as his memories stand.

Twice a week, constant as the dawn, he goes to Nimueh and learns from her as well. He has no great talent for magic in his own right, but he still learns simple charms, to light a fire and purify water, how to kindle a lightstone and clean a wound. He learns to read glyphs and runes, to recognise different patterns of spell-weaving and unravel them. She not only tells him the ways of the Old Religion, but great tales, too. Stories of days long gone, of heroes and villains, great exploits and betrayals. How the Tiberian empire came to Alba, bringing stone roads and foreign sickness and a new faith that scorned the ways of the Old Religion, called its followers unholy. He wonders what Alba is like now. He's never seen the mainland, but he knows that it is no longer a place for magic, that the followers of the Old Religion have been hunted down and cast out, fleeing to the safety of the island, eternally shrouded by magic and under the aegis of the dragons.

The summer of his tenth year is the year of the Dragonlords' conclave and his first pilgrimage to Mynydd Tân.

It is the single most exciting thing to happen to him in his young life. He's never been further away from their cave than the beach, and now they will be crossing the entire island to Mynydd Tân. The mountain of fire can be seen from every part of the island, even from the cliffs, the very peak of it still visible. The hollow mountain has long been the nesting place of dragons, as well as the home of the Dragonlords. Even though sorcerers of all ilk live on the island itself, only the Dragonlords themselves live inside Mynydd Tân. The idea of seeing so many people makes Arthur's belly tighten up in a mix of excitement and nervousness. They live a solitary life; there is Arthur, Uncle Tristan, and Nimueh. Other people are passing murmurs in the darkness, distant figures on the beach.

"Why are we going to Mynydd Tân?" Arthur asks

Uncle Tristan flicks an acorn at him. "Because I have said we are going. The conclave begins in a sennight, so we need make good pace. Finish packing."

Obediently, he goes back to the hearth, kneeling amidst his belongings. Arthur rolls up his blanket tightly, fastening it to his knapsack. "What is a conclave, anyways? Why hasn't there been one before?"

"It is only held every ten years. The last was held before your birth. Finished? Good. On your feet."

They are days travelling. Nimueh doesn't accompany them, so it is only himself and Uncle, and he gets another lesson—the háligweorc roads, pathways of land held in trust for all who lived on the island. No one could bar another's passage nor offer violence on háligweorcland. Still, it doesn't escape his notice that Uncle has his longsword rolled up in his bedroll.

Mynydd Tân looms ever closer.

They have indeed made good pace, for they arrive a day early, the forests thinning out as they approach the foot of the mountain, the ground too stony for anything to take root. Arthur has to tilt his head almost all the way back to see the peak of the mountain far above them, wreathed in pale veils of cloud and smoke. His heart rabbits with exhilaration. Uncle Tristan's brow furrows.

It's then he sees the Dragonlords up close for the first time. They're at the foot of the mountain, tending to their dragons. They all wear brightly coloured clothes, embroidered with intricate patterns, cut and fastened in strange ways. The men wear their hair longer, half-bound in a myriad of braids. And some of them have brightly-coloured patterns on their faces, too, red and blue and black, dots and stripes and spirals.

"That's one I've never understood," Uncle remarks as they walk closer. "No matter how gifted I am with blade or bow, I certainly wouldn't let someone put it on my face."

"What d'you mean?"

Uncle Tristan gives him an amused look and laughs in that way adults do when children ask questions they think are silly. "They mark up their pretty faces to show their skills, cub, though in what, I can't fathom."

Arthur gapes at him, floored. He'd assumed that was simply how they looked, just like how birds and beasts had their markings. People have them too, like the white stripe in Uncle Tristan's hair. Arthur has a mark, too, a purple-red splotch on his thigh like a little bruise that never faded. But they hadn't been born with their marks, they'd earned them.

"How do they do it?" he asks, stunned. "Magic?"

"Nay. Likely ink and needle, like any other," Uncle replies with a chortle, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Let's go."

He doesn't see how they are meant to get inside Mynydd Tân at all until they get closer; a deep crevasse in the mountainside is actually a cleverly hidden opening, invisible until they're nearly inside it. There's a Dragonlord standing guard there, leaning against the stone wall. Arthur swallows hard and resists the urge to edge behind Uncle Tristan. The man has twin rows of small black dots running across his brow, and a bright red stripe running from his hairline down to the bridge of his nose. There's something uncanny about him, the sharp angle of his cheekbones, the bones of his face. His gaze turns down to Arthur, an amused glint in his eyes. "Be welcome, little one." Looking up, he arches a brow at Uncle. "You, however…"

"He stays with me." One large, rough hand closes around Arthur's shoulder.

The Dragonlord huffs a laugh. "Very well. But you may carry no steel into Mynydd Tân."

Uncle Tristan pulls his sword from his bedroll and holds it out to the other man. "I expect that back," he says. He makes to walk past the Dragonlord into the mountain, hand on Arthur's shoulder pushing him forward.

"Your bow, du Bois."

At that, Uncle chortles and pulls an arrow from the quiver, holding it up. "Flint, not steel," he replies. Holding Arthur by the shoulder, he continues into the hollow mountain. The tunnel is narrow for a ways in, but then, all at once, it opens up, and they stand in the heart of the mountain itself.

Arthur stares, gaping open-mouthed.

Though he knows that Mynydd Tân is called the hollow mountain, he hadn't truly believed it to be hollow. And yet it is. If he were to stand in the very middle of the walkway and look up, he would be able to see the sky out of the open mouth of the peak. He cannot believe how enormous it all is. Their little cave can barely be called a cave compared to this. Veins of gleaming silver and gold and copper thread through the walls and walkways, studs of precious stone glittering, lit all over by scraped out hollows filled with fist-sized lightstones.

"Oh, it's so pretty," he gasps out.

Uncle Tristan chuckles lowly. "Indeed it is."

"Where do we—?" he starts to ask, wondering where in this great stone warren they are meant to be, when a burst of bright laughter catches his attention. Arthur turns his head towards the sound, and to his surprise, a handful of children near his own age sprint past, laughing and shrieking in joy. And bounding along with them, a pair of small dragons, no bigger than foxes, leaping in and out between their legs with squeaking yelps. Arthur stares after them, a strange sense of yearning unfurling in his chest.

Uncle nudges him with one arm. "Go on," he urges.

"Can I?" Arthur asks uncertainly; he's never been encouraged to wander far from their cave, much less speak to others.

"Aye. We'll be here a few days. Go on. Have fun. I'll find you later."

Stepping away from Uncle, half-expecting to be called back, he starts in the direction the other children have gone, following the sound of laughing and yelping. The sounds echo strangely in the stone halls, however, and he can't seem to find them again.

Frowning, he stands in the middle of the hall, hearing the rebounding echo of laughter. A nudge against his ankle makes him look down in surprise, only to see one of the little dragons perched beside his feet, blinking up at him with big red eyes. Not a dragon then, but a wyvern. They make good guardians when trained young. "Hello," he says, holding out a hand. The wyvern pip snuffles at his fingers, then tucks its head beneath his palm for pets, squeaking.

He scratches around the velvety nubs of its horns, smiling as it squeaks and wriggles, tail thumping. Sitting back on its haunches, it digs baby-soft claws in his breeches and climbs up his leg. Wrapping his hands arounds its middle, he lifts the pip up and settles it in the crook of his arm, scratching down its neck to its wing joints, hearing it give a buzzing churr of pleasure.

"Zann! Zann, where'd you go? Here, Zann!" a boy's voice calls, growing closer, and then a young, gangly boy comes sprinting around the corner, almost falling over himself. "Oh, there you are! Zann, you keep running off, Father is going to make me put a lead on you," he says as he lopes over to Arthur, addressing the pip sternly; it only squeaks again and snuggles more firmly into Arthur's arms. "Thank you for finding him. He keeps going on his own."

"I don't mind," Arthur replies, laughing as Zann nudges his hand for continued petting, squirming impatiently against him. "Are you here for the conclave too?" he asks. The boy must be one of the Dragonlords if he's in charge of a wyvern pip, or at least the son of one. He looks like the man that had stood guard at the gate, bearing that same stamp of wilderness in him, something ancient and foreign.

"No, I live here. It's everyone else that's visiting." The boy gives him a gap-toothed smile. "Who are you kin to?"

Arthur shrugs. "I don't know. My uncle brought us here."

"Oh. Well, we could go look at the blood-trees later, if you'd like."

He shakes his head. Shifting his grip on Zann, he leans down to set the pip down on the floor, dusting his hands off on his breeches. "If we take Zann with us, can we go do something fun? I've never been in Mynydd Tân before."

The boy gives him another wide grin, scrunching up his eyes and nose with it. "Sure. Come on, I'll show you around. Zann, come."

As they start down another corridor, the pip bounding between their legs, Arthur holds out a hand towards the other boy. "I'm Arthur du Bois."

He grasps Arthur's hand, shaking it. "I'm Emrys Ambrosius, but you can call me Merlin."


	3. Bloodlines and Friendships

"So, what is a conclave?" Arthur asks, throwing a nicked rib bone for Zann to fetch and laughing as the little wyvern goes scrabbling after it with joyous little hoots. He likes the high roost the best, the narrow juts of stone and small caves near the very peak of Mynydd Tân where the wyverns roost and rear their pips. The dragons nest deep below the earth, but no children are allowed down there. Zann's dam watches them from the mouth of her roost cave, blood-coloured eyes half-lidded but observant. The pips all look alike at first glance, but they have different patterns on their hides, mottled in dark and light grey with splotches of white and black; it makes for excellent camouflage against the stony ground of the mountain.

"It's when all the Dragonlords come together," Merlin replies, sitting cross-legged on the straw-strewn ground; another wyvern pip is curled up in his lap dozing, a third tucked under his left arm. "They settle grievances and such. I don't really know all they talk about, I'm not old enough to attend yet."

Zann comes bounding back to him with the rib, and Arthur wrestles it away from the pip. "Where do they come from? Not Alba, surely." He hurls the bone off again, though this time, another pip joins in on the game, resulting in a bout of tussling over the bone.

"Only one or two come from Alba anymore. The kingdoms aren't safe for us anymore, but there's places in the north and Éire where we hide and look after other sorcerers, help bring them to the island." Merlin chortles as another pip toddles over to him and snuggles up against his right side, effectively pinning him in place. "The others come from further east, on the other side of the Strait. Gaul, Carthage, Aragonia, places like that."

Arthur sits down, letting Zann flop over his legs with a weary huff, the curved rib bone clutched in his sharp teeth. He can't imagine ever going that far away from the island, further away than even Alba. Those places are no more than names on a map to him. "How do you speak to each other?" he wonders.

"We speak dragontongue."

"Dragontongue? Do all dragons know that?" Arthur wonders, and Merlin nods, stroking the pips' sides. "Can you teach me?"

Merlin cocks his head thoughtfully. "Dunno. Maybe. You were allowed into Mynydd Tân, so you must be kin. Come on." He untangles himself from the pips to the sound of much displeased honking, shooing them back towards their dam, and Arthur does the same, giving Zann a last farewell head-scratch. They head back inside, carefully picking their way down the winding pathways that meander all up and down the sides of the mountain.

Four days into the Dragonlords' conclave, and Arthur still doesn't know his way around Mynydd Tân. The corridors and walkways follow no rhyme or reason that he understands, though Merlin says that they're made along the mountain's heartlines, whatever that means. More than that, they slope, too, and subtly, so he could end up on an entirely different level of the mountain without even realising it. Thankfully, Merlin knows every bit of his home, so Arthur doesn't worry about getting lost.

As they're walking through a corridor, Merlin's younger brother comes toddling around the corner, his nursemaid following at a sedate pace behind him. The boy lets out a delighted cry of, "Emmis!" when he sees Merlin, quickening to an ungainly run and throwing his arms around Merlin's legs. He can't quite pronounce either of his brother's names, but Emrys is less of a struggle, despite Merlin's dislike of his true name.

"Young masters," the nursemaid says in greeting, emanating placid calm. Her eyes are a strange, deep hue of blue, like gazing down into the depths of a mountain lake. "Where are you off to?"

"Hello, Niniane. I'm going to show Arthur the blood-trees." Merlin leans down to hoist his brother up into his arms, making a show of it and giving an exaggerated grunt of strain to make the boy giggle. "Wanna come look with us, Mordred?" It's easy to tell them for brothers, fair and blue-eyed, with a mess of dark curls. Mordred's is still hidden under baby fat, but he has the same sharp-boned wildness to him.

"See trees!" the boy exclaims.

"All right. Come on, you can walk with us." Merlin leans down to put the child down again, taking one of little hand in his. To Arthur's surprise, Mordred reaches up to grasp one of his hands, too, and they go on down the corridor, having to take on a slower gait to accommodate the boy. Merlin leads them to an enormous chamber further down the hall, big as the great hall. Unlike the others, this room is empty of all furnishing except for the lightstones, and the stone walls are smooth and white as milkglass, etched all over with names and coiling lines in red, gold, and black.

Arthur looks around the room in amazement. "Are these all Dragonlords?" He can't imagine there being so many.

"All the ones whose lines haven't broken. Once their power breaks, they stop appearing here. See?" Merlin points up at some of the shining lines that stop short, the blood-trees ending abruptly. "Maybe you're kin to one of them."

"Where's your name?"

Merlin walks over to the far wall and points to the tallest blood-tree, stretching nearly all the way up to the very ceiling, an unbroken line of gold. "The Ambrosius line is the oldest. Legend says the first Dragonlord was an Ambrosius, an eon ago when the world was still covered in ice. Mynydd Tân is always held by one of us."

Mordred toddles over to trace small fingers over the wall, standing on his toes to reach the ones higher up, sounding out the names with careful precision. At the very bottom of the vast blood-tree, Balinor's name is etched in gold, connected to Lady Hunith's name in black, and beneath them, Emrys and Mordred are carved in black. Arthur imagines they'll turn gold when Balinor dies and they inherit their full power.

"You didn't tell me you had cousins," he remarks, pointing out a descending branch of the Ambrosius tree, extending down alongside the main line from Merlin's great-great-grandfather, Morfawr. He traces a fingertip over the golden line, following it down. Morfawr, then to Tudwal, then to Cynfawr and Aurelia…and then it stops.

"Cynfawr died without children," Merlin tells him. "That's why it ends like that, even though Aurelia had her own son. Custennin, I think. I'm sure I still have cousins. The Pendragon line didn't end with her, their power just broke. They aren't Dragonlords anymore."

"Pendragon," Arthur echoes, turning the name over curiously. He likes the way it sounds.

* * *

The conclave ends two days later.

Despite the overwhelming presence of so many people, Arthur is loathe to leave already. He's never made a friend before. He likes playing with Merlin, exploring Mynydd Tân and seeing the dragons. He likes little Mordred and Lady Hunith, even if Balinor is a little scary, broad as a tree and hairy as a bear. "Do we have to go?" he asks, sulking as he picks at a chip in the wall.

"Aye, we do." Uncle Tristan turns to give him a curious look, brows furrowed over his dark eyes. "Do you not miss our home?"

"I do!" Arthur says instantly. He does miss their cave, the creek and the little stretch of beach. He misses Nimueh, too, and her raspy voice and her lessons. "But…I like it here, too. Merlin's my friend."

That earns him another curious look. "Who?"

Oh, that's right. Only Hunith and Mordred actually call Merlin, Merlin. Everyone else addresses him by his true name, even though he doesn't like it. "Emrys."

Uncle straightens up. "The little Ambrosius? Balinor's son?" he asks in a strange, flat voice; Arthur nods. He lets out a heavy sigh and runs a hand back through his hair, giving a weak laugh. "Oh, cub. You do find interesting friends, don't you?"

"What do you mean?"

Waving a hand, Uncle turns back to packing his knapsack; his longsword has been returned to him, rolled up in his blankets. "Nothing. Just…come along. We're going," he instructs.

Arthur sighs and drags his feet over to his own belongings, packing them up. Unhappiness makes a solid weight in his belly, foreign and unpleasant, and a part of him wants to make a sloppy job of it a-purpose so he can stay just a little longer. Still, he knows it'll only make Uncle cross with him, and then they'll leave faster.

Having watched him the entire time, Uncle Tristan sighs again. "Alright, come on. Come say farewell to your little friend."

Grinning, Arthur grabs up his knapsack, following Uncle from their guest chamber down one of the biggest corridors; it leads directly into an enormous chamber, full of huge braziers and vast beds of hot red coals, almost unbearably hot. This must be where all the Dragonlords hold their conclave, Arthur realises. At the far end of the hall, there's a natural rise of stone and two great stone chairs on top of it, made of smooth black rock. They hadn't been carved out, they had been shaped over thousands upon thousands of years of Dragonlords sitting in them.

Balinor sits there now, with Lady Hunith in her seat beside him, Mordred on her lap. And standing beside his father's chair is Merlin. When the other boy sees Arthur, he grins, leaps down off the rise, and sprints across the chamber to leap at Arthur in one of his full-body hugs, almost knocking them both over into Uncle Tristan. "Are you going to come back and visit?" Merlin asks once he loosens his strangler grip on Arthur's neck. "All the other Dragonlords are leaving again, so it's just going to be me and Mordred here again, and he's too little to have real fun yet."

Arthur glances up at Uncle hopefully. He doesn't want to have to wait another ten years to see his friend. Watching them with some amusement, Uncle Tristan gives a faint smile. "Aye, perhaps in time," he says, and Arthur laughs gleefully, turning around to embrace his uncle as well.

"And until then…" Balinor's deep voice interjects, and Arthur turns back to face the lord of Mynydd Tân, feeling that little quiver of nervousness in his belly he feels whenever he's facing the big man. He smells like hot metal and burning cedar and something else musky and reptilian. From the voluminous sleeve of his coat, he pulls a sheathed dagger with a coiled belt. It looks small in his big hands, almost dainty, and yet when he pulls the blade free, the steel hisses out sharp and keen. Etched up the runnel are spidery runes Arthur doesn't recognise. "It is named Carnwennan," Balinor says, sliding the dagger back into the sheath, then holds it out towards Arthur. "Have a care you do not cut your fingers."

He stares in disbelief, mouth hanging open. "Really? It's for me?" he asks, reaching up to take the dagger from him. It feels so light in his hands, lighter than Uncle Tristan's dagger even though it's longer, and the smooth bone hilt is warm when he curls his fingers around it. He glances at Merlin, but his friend looks just as surprised at it too.

"Indeed." There's a surprising warmth in Balinor's dark eyes. "And see here." He uncoils the belt and stretches it out between his hands. "Cockatrice hide. It will never break. There's room yet to grow in it."

"Thank you, my lord," he murmurs, awed. Tucking in his shirttails, he loops the belt around his waist, pulling it as tight as it goes. It's still a little loose, but it fits.

Easing around, Merlin comes to embrace him again, squeezing hard enough to make Arthur poke at him before he was strangled. "Maybe when you come back, we'll be able to ride the major dragons together," he says, casting a glance back at his father.

"We shall see," Balinor says in amusement.

Arthur steps up onto the stone rise, embracing Lady Hunith in farewell, ruffling Mordred's curly mop. "Look after yourself, little bear," she says warmly, keeping one arm firmly around her younger son to keep him in place, the other reaching up to smooth Arthur's hair down. She always does that, and unlike Merlin, he doesn't duck away, liking the callused warmth of her touch. "And behave for your uncle," she adds, tweaking his ear playfully.

"I will." He turns back towards Uncle Tristan, surprised to see his uncle aiming a deep, level stare at Balinor. Arthur frowns a little. Uncle only ever gives that look to Nimueh whenever he argues with the priestess when they think Arthur isn't listening. He still doesn't know all that it means, but he knows it isn't a happy look. He doesn't know why Uncle would be unhappy with Balinor, though. He didn't even think they knew one another. "Uncle?" he says hesitantly.

Uncle Tristan blinks a few times, turning his gaze back down to Arthur, as though he's forgotten he was there. "Come on, cub," he orders.

"What—?"

"Now," he says, tone brooking no argument, and one hand closes over the back of Arthur's neck, turning him firmly towards the door. He keeps his grip firm all the way out of Mynydd Tân. Only once they're outside of the hollow mountain in open air again does he let go of Arthur. His face is set in a dark scowl, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

The questions Arthur had on the tip of his tongue shrivel away. Settling his knapsack more securely on his shoulders, he follows his uncle's long-legged stride back towards the treeline and the start of the háligweorc land that will take them back home in silence. As the cool shadows of the trees reach out towards them, Arthur casts a glance back at Mynydd Tân over his shoulder. From here, he can just see a small figure standing outside the secret gate, brightly coloured against the black-grey of the mountainside; the figure raises an arm in farewell. He raises his own arm, waving goodbye until Uncle calls for him to keep up.


	4. Kinship

Mynydd Tân is always warm, as if the walls themselves run with subtle fire, but the warmest chamber, aside from the dragons' nesting ground, is easily the lord's chamber. After enduring years of bitter autumns and frigid winters in Ealdor, Hunith appreciates the constant heat, able to go to bed barefoot and in a night rail instead of bundled in layers. As she sits on the end of the bed, easing her jacquard slippers off, her eyes follow her husband. Balinor doesn't pace, exactly, but he has a way of drifting around the room, point to point, and standing there for several moments before moving again.

When he shows no sign of getting himself ready for bed, she rises from the bed and walks over, using one foot to pull the chair out from beneath the vanity. "Sit down," she instructs, catching his shoulders as he makes to drift past her again. Looking slightly abashed, Balinor sits down; Hunith moves to stand behind him, gathering up his hair in her hands. "What is it that troubles you, husband?" she asks softly, picking apart the thin strands of wax thread at the bottom of each small braid.

"The boy," he grunts.

She very nearly asks which boy he is referring to, as there's more than one, but she holds her tongue, focusing on her task instead. "Arthur's a sweet lad," she says. "I'm fond of him."

"I am fond of him myself, but that does not erase my worry. He is a Pendragon. Uther's son."

"Neither of which he knows," Hunith reminds him. "Tristan's never told him." She isn't certain how wise that is, keeping such secrets, but she can understand it as well. No child should bear the burden of having the man named the Bloody Tyrant for a father. Especially considering they live on the very island they had all been forced to flee to in order to escape the Great Purge and Uther's never-ending wrath. Her hands pause. "You cannot mean to hold him accountable for Uther's sins?"

Balinor shakes his head as best he can. "Accountable, no, but…" He sighs.

"You worry," she supplies.

"Mm."

Once all the wax thread is removed, she starts undoing the braids, easing them apart. After so many years of practice, she's able to do it swiftly and easily, picking up an antler comb to run through his hair once it's all loose. "You gave him Carnwennan," she points out. "You must not worry so much, to give him such a thing."

The dagger is one of the four heirlooms forged by Morfawr Ambrosius for his sons, burnished in the breath of Melaxes, the she-dragon that was his lifelong companion. Aside from the dagger, there is also a spear, a shield, and a sword. When Tudwal had taken on the Pendragon epithet, he'd taken the sword and the shield, but both had since been lost with their breaking away from the Dragonlords and the breaking of their line.

Balinor grunts. "That…I cannot say why I did, only that it seemed right." He doesn't sound as though he is entirely pleased with his decision.

"Then surely there is a purpose behind it." She leans down to rest her cheek against the top of his head, something she can only ever do when he's sitting down. After a moment, she poses, "Was not your grandfather a kinslayer?" She cannot recite a dozen generations of Ambrosius lineage as he can, but she does know a fair bit of their history, including their more infamous relatives. Wyon Ambrosius had been the second-born son, and he had poisoned his elder brother, his brother's wife, and his nephew to inherit Mynydd Tân and the dragonstone chair. He hadn't been found out until some years later, after he had wed and sired his own son, and once discovered, the Court of Fire had found him guilty, ordered his execution.

"He was." There's a tinge of sulking to his voice, no doubt knowing precisely the point she's about to make.

"And yet your father is known as Althalos the Conciliator. He resolved a blood feud that lasted how many years?"

"Two centuries," Balinor concedes.

Hunith takes a step around so she can tilt her head to look into his face. "Where would he be if no one had given him the chance to be better than his father?" she asks, touching his cheek. "Arthur deserves that same chance. If we only ever look for the worst in him, then it is all he will ever find of himself, all he will ever be."

He's quiet for a long moment, but then he nods once, rising from the stool. Hunith sits down and begins to draw the pins from her hair, setting them on the vanity one at a time, then passes a boar-bristle brush over her shoulder to Balinor. As he pulls the brush through her hair, he ventures in a passably casual tone, "There are those who say that there is a destiny meant for them. Kilgharrah says—"

"No," Hunith says flatly.

Balinor sighs. "My love…."

"No. I do not care how old he is, and I do not care what he claims to know of the future." Turning in the stool, she tilts her chin up to stare at him. "I will not hear a word of his so-called prophecies spoken to my sons. They are children, Balinor, not chess pieces for him to set up and play as he please." She has never liked Kilgharrah, though he is the eldest of the living Great Dragons and has long given counsel to the scions of the Ambrosius line. There is something of him that simply unsettles her, as though he does not truly see them for who they are, only for what worth they have to him. She is no Dragonlord to argue Kilgharrah's presence in Mynydd Tân, nor will she presume to tell Balinor how to rule his kin. But she is a mother, and Merlin and Mordred are her children.

Recognising a battle he cannot win, her lord husband nods again, acquiescing.

As she gathers up her hair and twines it into a loose braid for bed, there's a shuffling of footsteps at the doorway, and a drowsy voice calling, "Mother?"

She turns to see Merlin standing in the doorway, Mordred clinging to his back with arms around his neck and legs around his waist. "What is it, little ones?"

"Mordred's had one…" He yawns enormously. "…of his dreams again."

Hunith ties off her braid with a bit of ribbon and rises to her feet, walking over to them. "Come on, darling. You can come lay with us until you fall asleep again," she says gently, holding out her arms, and Mordred reaches his arms up for her, releasing his stranglehold on his brother. His eyes are wide and fixed in that nervous way he gets after having one of his dreams, the ones that are some dread mix of prophetic images and nightmare figures, waking him in cold terror. Balinor says that it is a common occurrence for young sorcerers, especially ones of great magic, but she does wish it wouldn't fall on him so hard, so young. He buries his face against her when she picks him up, his skin cool and clammy.

"What did you dream of, my little dragonet?" she asks, stroking his curls down as she sinks back into the array of pillows on the bed. "Can you speak of it?"

"Emmis an' Afur," Mordred murmurs, muffled against her night rail. "A funny white mountain. A lotta birds eatin' a baby dragon. A cryin' lady. An' a man wit' two faces."

"A man with two faces?" Hunith echoes. "A mask, you mean?"

"No. He got two faces."

She glances over at Merlin, who only shrugs in confusion. He reaches over to tug Mordred's curls. "Is the man our friend?" he asks.

Mordred turns his head slightly to look at his brother. "One face is." Squeezing his eyes closed, he squirms down until the blankets are over his head, huddling against her side. Hunith knows he won't speak anymore of his dreams now, so she tucks the blanket more securely around him and pulls the edge down a little so he won't smother, rubbing a hand over his back to soothe him.

Apparently giving no more thought to men with two faces, Merlin shifts over slightly to lean against Balinor; beside his father's bulk, he looks almost comically small, like one of the minor dragons that like to sleep on Kilgharrah's back. "Father?" he asks in a hesitant voice.

"Hm?"

"I don't have to wait until the next conclave to see Arthur again, do I? Can I go see him?"

Balinor casts a glance over his head towards her; she only raises her brows and gazes back at him. She's said her part of this, she'll say no more. Pressing his lips together, he's quiet for a moment. "Arthur and his uncle live on the other side of the island, at Crackclaw. That's a sennight's travel."

"If we walk," Merlin protests. "I could fly. Benrey can take me. Or Lyll."

"And would you have them fly you across the island constantly?"

He frowns a little. "No. But…maybe I could go and stay for a while? And then come back?"

"That would be up to Tristan du Bois."

She smiles at the look of exasperated annoyance Merlin levels at his father; neither of them has even the slightest idea just how clear the resemblance is between them. "Well, I can hardly ask him now," he replies.

Balinor's expression doesn't truly shift, but Hunith sees the creases in the corners of his eyes which means he's smiling. "Allow some time for everything to resettle, my boy, and then…we will see," he relents.

Merlin grins that wide, endearing smile of his that creases his eyes the same way. "Thank you, Father." Grinning, he snuggles down into the bedcovers and reaches out to curl an arm around his brother's sleeping figure.

Hunith watches her sons until their breathing deepens in slumber, relaxing into the bed. Touching their soft curls with her fingertips, she turns her gaze over to Balinor once more. "Well? What will you?" she asks.

He is silent for a long time, gazing down at the boys with dark eyes; lamplight catches on the sparks of gold in them, stars in a night sky. Not for the first time, she wonders what all goes on inside his mind in these moments when he goes so far into himself. Finally, he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Give it a fortnight. I'll take Benrey, fly out to Crackclaw with Emrys and arrange something with du Bois," he says in a low voice. His gaze lifts to hers, creases in the corners of his eyes once more. "And we will see what this boy will be."


	5. The Ceremony of Innocence

The year following the conclave is one of the happiest of Arthur's life. Uncle Tristan and Balinor come to an agreement between them, and at least once in the turn of a month, Merlin is flown out to the beach by one of the major dragons and stays a handful of days before returning home. They go exploring all along the beach in the tidal caves that honeycomb the base of the cliffs, climbing trees in the surrounding forest, walking along the high clifftops to watch the seabirds and dragons in the air. Merlin visits less in the winter months, as the dragons and wyverns grow sluggish with cold, but when he does, they spend hours sharing warmth in the cave, speaking of everything and nothing. Merlin has tales from the Dragonlords' history, ones Arthur has never heard before, telling them with great relish. He even comes to meet Nimueh once, though she does no more than gaze at them with her pink-pearl eyes, an enigmatic expression on her face. Merlin finds her strange; Arthur promises that's how she always is.

As the summer begins to wind towards autumn, when he comes to visit again, he's nervous about something and is quieter than is wont the entire day, even though he tries to hide it. "What is it, _Mer_lin?" Arthur drawls at last, elbowing him as they sprawl out in the long grasses at the top of the cliffs, staring out at the sea beyond. "You're fretting on something."

Chewing his lower lip, Merlin picks at a clump of sere grass, worrying the stalks between his fingers. "I have to go for a while," he says at last.

Arthur tilts his head, brow furrowed. "So? You always do."

"No, not like before. For much longer now. There's things I have to learn, things Father has to teach me. About my power. About being a Dragonlord. Things I couldn't learn before because I was too young." He yanks at the grass again. "I can't tell you about all of it, but…Father and I are going to be leaving soon. And I won't be allowed to see anyone except Father and Mordred. I'm not even supposed to see Mother."

He swallows hard, understanding tightening around his chest like a great steel band. "Definitely not me, then," he whispers, and Merlin winces, snapping a few more stalks of grass. "How long?"

"I don't know. It depends on how fast I learn, but…at least a year?"

Arthur lets out a sharp breath, feeling as though he's just had the air punched from him. "A year," he repeats flatly. Even saying it makes it an impossibly long time to him, his throat closing up, and he has to swallow hard again before he can speak. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I didn't know before. Father only told me just before I came this time, and I…" Merlin shrugs one shoulder, twisting a piece of grass around his fingertip. "I didn't want you to be sad. I wanted us to be happy before I left for so long, so I could remember it."

"When do you leave?" Arthur asks in a small voice.

Merlin sinks his teeth into his lip again. "At the turn of the moon."

Four days. Four days, and then he won't see Merlin again for a year. Maybe more than that.

"Father says you can come back to Mynydd Tân with me, say goodbye."

"No," he says, perhaps a little too swiftly as Merlin flinches as if struck by the word. "I just mean…it won't make a difference, will it? Here or there, you'll still be gone. Just…let's just stay here. The sunsets are best to watch this time of year," Arthur declares, settling himself back on his elbows on the grass, gazing out towards the cliff and the sparkling ocean, all the way to where sea and sky meet in a distant haze. He feels a faint stirring in his chest, a dim, pulsing whisper calling to him. _East. East._ When Merlin settles back beside him, his shoulder and arm pressed up warm and solid against Arthur's, the strange whisper quiets once more, leaving only a deep, forlorn ache.

As the sun sinks lower and lower into the sea, the sky takes on the hue of fresh blood, streaked with broad bands of gold. It reminds him of dragon fire, and the old myth that a red sky at dawn meant a dragon had died in the night. It also reminds him of the weight in his pocket. "Here." Arthur digs in his pocket and pulls out a piece of grey stone, handing it to Merlin. "That's for you. I found it on the beach by our pool." The stone is irregularly shaped and half again the size of a peach pit. When looked at from the right angle, it looks like a dragon curled up to sleep. It had looked like that when he found it, too; all he'd done was smooth off the edges so they weren't so sharp. "So you don't forget about me."

Merlin curls his fingers around the stone. "Like that'd ever happen, clotpole."

"That's still not a word."

"It's _my_ word." A heartbeat of quiet, then a soft murmur. "I'll miss you."

Arthur swallows twice before he speaks. "I'll miss you, too," he replies, and he blames stinging of his eyes on the sunset's glare.

* * *

Autumn arrives. Merlin leaves.

Uncle tries to take his mind from it by beginning training with the longsword, saying that he's of age to begin learning. The blade is too heavy for him to lift for longer than a few moments, even with both hands, but he's given a smaller, slenderer sword to practice with instead. They go through forms again and again, until every part of him aches from the repetitious motions. It's a good ache, however, and it keeps him from thinking overlong on Merlin and the strange flickering which sometimes arises in his chest, pulling his gaze to the east. Always east.

Though winter is usually a time of solitude and inactivity, things begin to change nonetheless.

He grows taller, taller than Uncle Tristan, much to his own pleased dismay. At first, he's uncertain of what to do with himself, off-balanced and unfamiliar with it, but as they spend hours of the short winter days in the meadow training with the longsword, he finds his footing again, resettling into himself. Uncle gifts him with his own bow as well, allows him to go hunting on his own.

Arthur feels strange in his skin.

Strange…but good.

It's as though he is a serpent just shed its old, worn skin for a fresh new form underneath, sensitive in half a hundred new ways he'd never felt before. He could become absorbed for hours in the softness of a piece of rabbitskin, rubbing the velvety fur against his cheek, his lips. Cloth sliding against his skin. Sun-warm sand running between his fingers on the beach. Thawing his hands over the fire after a day afield. All of it could make him shiver with pleasure. Where he'd once dreaded the pains and sores of training, he comes to relish it instead, stretching into the aches languorously, liking how it feels.

Spring and summer come and go, steady and constant. Arthur sometimes catches himself gazing upwards, pausing to listen for the familiar rustle of dragon's wings, even as he reminds himself that it might well be more than a year before Merlin returns. Still, he waits and listens. And looks eastward. Always east.

Autumn approaches in its usual subtle way, by inches and not leaps. Curling leaves and cool breezes, birds in formation and smoke rising from the peak of Mynydd Tân. Arthur stands on the beach, waving farewell to the selkies; they'll be leaving for their winter grounds on the far shore of the island and won't return until Beltane at the earliest. As he watches their sleek dark shapes race along through the water, a familiar sound reaches his ears—the dry, leathery sound of a dragon's wings. Nothing else sounds quite like it.

Tilting his head back, he sees the familiar shape of Benrey circling around, lower and lower, sun playing off the major dragon's blue-purple scales. His heart gives a strange lurch in his chest, a warmth in his belly, but he doesn't shift from where he stands, a more familiar sense of stubbornness raising its head. He wasn't the one who left. He won't be the one to go running back, either.

Benrey circles around and alights on the rocks instead of the sand proper, shaking his wings out once before folding them in, lowering one shoulder to allow a tall figure to slide down off his back. Jumping down from the rocks, the rider lopes across the sand towards him with an easy, long-legged stride, then stops short.

Merlin blinks. "Arthur?"

Arthur folds his arms across his chest. "Who else would I be?"

He flushes. "Yourself, of course, it's just…. You've grown."

"Aye, so I have." He arches a brow. "So have you." They stay gazing at one another for a moment, familiar yet not, until Arthur sees the corners of Merlin's mouth twitch upwards and finds himself grinning in response. "You still look like a startled stoat, though," he remarks, stepping forward to embrace his friend.

"And you still look like a clotpole," Merlin retorts.

"Still _not_ a word. Come on, let's go."

Merlin is tall and whipcord-lean with it, all sharp edges and graceful lines, sinewy muscle in his shoulders and arms. His hair is longer, coming down over those absurd ears of his, half-bound in a myriad of braids in Dragonlord custom. More than that, his face is tattooed with black claws bracketing his eyes, as though some ink-clawed beast has raked over his face. It makes him look different. Wilder, fiercer, like some fey creature that should be peering out of the hollow hills.

"I'm the first in eight generations to earn them," Merlin says when Arthur asks about them, walking back up the narrow trail towards the cave.

"What do they mean?"

"That would be telling."

Arthur rolls his eyes in exasperation, but then he reaches out and touches Merlin's cheek with his fingers, tracing over the marks. "I thought they'd feel different. Like a scar," he murmurs, fascinated. "But they don't. They're smooth." Soft and warm, too, just like the rest of Merlin's skin. He thinks about the bone needles, so sharp and fine, dipped in ink so near to the softness of the eye, and an unfamiliar sensation blooms in the pit of his belly, a curious twisting that is neither hunger nor fear. He drops his hand and turns away.

"Where's your uncle?"

"Hunting."

"Without his bow?" Merlin points across the hearth to where a yew longbow is propped at the mouth of the cavern beside a quiver of new-fletched arrows.

Arthur lifts his chin, a touch indignant. "That is mine."

"It is?" Merlin gives out a strange little laugh in his throat, and he turns to face Arthur with his familiar face and his strange tattoos, one hand reaching out towards him. "Dagda Mor, have I been gone so long?"

"You have." Arthur leans away from him. "So, have you brought me anything from your great and mysterious journey?" he asks.

"Umm…"

"Hm."

Merlin takes a step closer to him. "I left my things at Mynydd Tân. I'll let you pick any one you like," he promises.

Arthur doesn't move away this time, lifting his chin again. Merlin is taller than him, he realises, and they're nearly nose-to-nose. "What I'd _like_ is my friend back."

Merlin's hands close over his shoulders, strong in their grip. It feels good; he likes it. "Haven't I always been your friend?" he asks. His voice has a deeper register now, low and rumbling down in his chest, his breath warm and unexpectedly sweet.

Arthur can feel that tightening warmth in his belly again. "When it suits," he replies, and oh, is that _his_ voice, so deep and rough-sounding?

"It _always _suits." Merlin squeezes his shoulders.

Uncle Tristan clears his throat loudly. He stands on the other side of the creek, a brace of grouse dangling in hand.

Merlin drops his hands as if burnt, taking a step back. "I-I was, uhm…I'll see you tomorrow," he stammers out, then flees towards the beach with the alacrity of a spooked hare. A moment later, the leathern rush of dragon wings stirs the air.

Uncle shifts his bow on his shoulder. "So," he says, a wry twist to his mouth. "Already?"

Arthur glares. "We were just—"

"I can see well enough what you were about." He walks over and hands off the grouse to Arthur, then goes to set a pot to boil, slicing in bits of greens and roots, set to make a hearty stew from it. Across the hearth, Arthur plucks the grouse, yanking at the feathers with more force than is entirely necessary, glaring at the birds as though they've done him harm. Finally, Uncle pauses and looks up at him. "Arthur…." He sighs, turning his knife over in hand. "You may have grown, cub, but you're a child in a man's body yet. Have a care with it, won't you?"

"Why does it worry you so?" he asks, snatching at the last feathers.

"You're young."

"How old were _you?"_ Arthur counters. He doesn't want to be told he's a child, and he doesn't want to have a care. He wants to let that strange warmth in his belly grow into proper flame, and he wants not to stop its spread.

Uncle Tristan is quiet a long moment, stirring the greens with intent. When he speaks, he doesn't answer the question Arthur asked at all. "Would you have the truth from me, cub?" he asks. Surprised, Arthur nods. He raises his dark, dark eyes, unexpectedly sorrowful. "Whatever lies between you and the young Ambrosius, whatever it is that draws your gaze ever eastward…it's a powerful thing. I can see it, laying over you like some bright shadow. Did you think I did not?"

It is Arthur's turn to be silent.

"Children. Slow to credit their elders. I've seen it since you met one another, cub. I've worried on it for years. I've prayed, and yet…" He rolls the spoon between his palms slowly, staring at the simmering pot. "Something within me says that this is as it should be. That this is right. For reasons I cannot know, the Old Ones will this to be so. But I am still only a man, and I fear to lose you, my sister-son and joy of my heart." His mouth twists in a wry, sad smile. "So I do beg you to go slowly from me."

Arthur's throat tightens, an ache in his chest. "I'm not going anywhere."

"No?"

"No." Moving around the fire, he crawls closer and lays his head against Uncle Tristan's knee. "No."

"Ah, little bear." Callused hands smooth over his hair. "Stay a child for a while longer."

"I will," Arthur promises.

* * *

He tries.

For a year, he does his very best to ignore the warmth that blooms in the pit of his belly whenever he is near to Merlin, the unfamiliar heat that slides down his back and makes him shiver. Even when he goes to visit Mynydd Tân, well away from Uncle Tristan's company, he keeps himself in check. The first time he returns to the mountain, it surprises him to find that he and Merlin aren't the only ones who have grown. Mordred is no longer the round-faced babe who cannot pronounce his brother's name but a boy approaching the edge of manhood himself. Soon, he'll be taking his own pilgrimage with Balinor, earning his own marks.

Merlin visits more often now that he's old enough to venture out on his own, staying longer. Betimes, the nearness of him is enough to drive Arthur half-mad. Only the constant shadow of worry in Uncle Tristan's eyes holds him at bay, reminding him of his promise. Still, nothing can be done about those chagrined mornings when he wakes to sticky blankets, a result of his feverish dreams. His dreams are strange things. For the most part, he doesn't remember their content, only foggy recollections and half-remembered impressions. Most of them are pleasant. Some are not.

"Something troubles you," Uncle Tristan says quietly, gazing at him across the fire.

Arthur shrugs one shoulder. "I've not slept well, that's all," he evades.

"Mm," is all Uncle says to that, but his dark gaze doesn't shift for a long time, gazing at him as though he means to stare right through him.

Arthur pays him no mind, leaning back against the wall of the cavern and turning over the dagger that Balinor had given him, tracing his fingers over the faint engravings on the sheath, so old they've been worn shiny and smooth. Merlin had told him about the history of Carnwennan and its sister weapons and shield; Arthur had tried to give the dagger back to him then, overwhelmed and entirely unworthy of bearing something so precious. Merlin had refused it, insisting that Balinor must've gifted it for a reason.

He rubs a fingertip over the pommel, tracing the dragon-head triskele that is the sigil of the Dragonlords and the Ambrosius line, gazing into the leaping, flickering tongues of flame. His eyes begin to slide closed, hands slack in his lap….

"Arthur."

The sound of his name jerks him awake with a start, knowing Uncle will scold him for falling asleep with a blade in hand. He opens his mouth to apologise, then snaps it shut just as swiftly.

Uncle Tristan isn't there any longer. Standing across from the fire is a woman, tall and graceful in her strength, framed by a spill of black hair that reaches down to her waist. "Arthur," she repeats, gazing across at him unblinking, green as the rushes.

"I…I…"

She curls her hands before her, a sword hilt appearing in them, the blade glowing burnished gold in the firelight. She raises her arms, the sword rising with it, and with one sharp movement, she thrusts the blade downwards, plunging the steel into the stone of the cavern floor as though it is no more than gossamer. All at once, the air turns cold, so cold he can see his breath before him. Frost makes feathery patterns over the sword blade, silvering the edges of her hair and gown, and he can smell something foul, ancient and decayed. "Arthur," she says a third time, an infinite compassion in her green, green eyes.

"I don't know what this _means._ What do you _want_ from me?" he asks in a whisper.

She turns her head to look at the mouth of the cave. Arthur turns his head and gasps. Beyond the cave lies not the wind-swept hearth and the forest, but the sea, sunlight glittering off the water's surface. Seabirds wheel and cry overhead, high counterpoint to the rumbling crash of the waves. A breeze blows through, carrying the scent of salt through the cave, briefly masking the sour smell of something long-dead.

"I have a long way to go, don't I?" he murmurs.

The woman's gaze returns to him, sorrowful and loving. Her hands curl around the sword hilt once more, pulling it free of the stone, and when she does, a wellspring of white mist spills up out of it, the source of the cold, of that sour dead-smell, coiling across the floor of the cavern like bone fingers. When it reaches his legs, Arthur gasps aloud at how _cold_ it is, so cold it burns even through his clothes, winding around him in sharp edged tendrils. He tries to draw his legs away, move back, but it holds fast to him. He cannot move from it.

"Help me!" he cries, looking to the woman. The mist crawls up his body, winding around his chest, his arms. When he breathes in, he can taste it, bitter and sweet enough to gag, cold searing his lungs.

She only stares at him, unmoving, hands around the sword hilt. Her gaze slides away from his face to a point over his shoulder.

Before Arthur can turn his head, he feels something strike his back, feels something strike _through_ him, and he looks down to see the point of a dagger emerging bloody and sharp from his heart, the taste of blood rising in his mouth, the white mist overtaking his vision, and over the sound of his faltering heart, he hears a voice shouting, "Pendragon!"

_"Arthur!"_

He comes back to himself with a choked cry, sputtering and flailing and…wet? Shaking his sodden hair out of his face, he sees Uncle Tristan kneeling before him with an empty waterskin in hand, concern writ across his face. No woman, no mist, no ocean beyond the cavern. And yet he can still taste blood in his mouth, and that sour stench lingers like some unnerving perfume.

"Arthur, what's—?" Uncle starts to ask, but Arthur lunges forward, throwing both arms around him, burying his head against his shoulder. Uncle Tristan returns the embrace, one hand smoothing down his hair, the other rubbing soothing circles against his back as though he's a child again.

It's some moments before Arthur lets himself be coaxed back, strong hands grasping him firmly by the shoulders. For the first time in his life, he does not know what to say to his uncle, opening his mouth and then closing it again noiselessly. Uncle Tristan's dark eyes grow solemn nonetheless, a spark of understanding lighting in his gaze. He reaches up to clasp a hand over the nape of Arthur's neck, warm and grounding. "On your feet, cub," he says firmly. "We must speak to the priestess."


	6. The Call

Never once in all his years has Nimueh come to their cave, and never once has Uncle Tristan gone to hers. The creek that lies between them might well be a bottomless chasm instead of knee-deep water for all it serves to keep them apart. Seeing Uncle standing in the middle of the priestess's cave, looking out of place amidst her charms and stones and herbs, is almost more unsettling to Arthur than his disturbing dreams.

"If this is some trick of yours…" Uncle doesn't finish his sentence, but his hand curls around the hilt of his skinning knife.

"I have no power to impart visions upon another," she replies without looking up from where she is examining Arthur. Blind though she is, she does not need her eyes for this, as he can feel the brush of her magic drifting over him, cool and impersonal, searching for any fell enchantment upon him. After a moment, she releases his hands and sits back. "There is no spell upon you," she declares, a furrow appearing between her brows. Nimueh is quiet for a long moment, her blind gaze fixed at some far point, fingers turning one of the polished stone bangles on her wrists. Finally, after a long moment, she says, "The old blood runs in your mother's line. And in your father's."

"My _father?"_ Arthur echoes; Uncle Tristan goes entirely still.

"Indeed. Their gifts have faded over the years, but it isn't inconceivable that you may have inherited some trace of it. Still, it is strange. Usually it is only women who have dreams of truth."

He shakes his head. "I…I don't think it was a true dream," he says, and she raises one brow. Shifting his weight, he explains slowly, "Mordred dreams true. He's told me about them. So has Merlin. This doesn't feel like that. It feels more like…" Arthur sinks his teeth in his bottom lip, foundering. "I don't know. It feels more as though someone is calling to me. Trying to warn me, but of what, I cannot say."

The priestess hums thoughtfully. "Perhaps so." Her clouded gaze wanders back towards him, and though it's like only his imagining, it seems as though she's staring directly at him. "But that is not all it is. Is it?"

Arthur glances up at Uncle, then shakes his head. "No. I've felt a…different calling. Something pulling at me, here." He presses a hand to his chest. That fluttering pulse is no longer a quiet, subtle thing; it blazes hot and insistent, beating counterpoint to his heartbeat. "And now with this, I…" Rubbing his chest absently, as if to calm the urgent thrumming there, he says, "Nimueh, I don't know who I saw, but someone _is_ calling me. East. Across the sea." He swallows hard. "To Alba."

Uncle makes an almost inaudible noise of pain in his throat.

Nimueh reaches out to him, and he places his hand in hers. "I cannot tell you what this calling is, nor who calls to you," she says at length. "But if you know what it asks of you…it is yours to answer as you see fit."

Arthur looks up as Uncle Tristan takes a step closer to him, one hand grasping his shoulder firm. "Wherever it is you're bound, I'll come with you," he says in a low voice.

His heart leaps, but an invisible band closes tight about his chest, squeezing hard. He bites his lip. "No," he murmurs. "It's not meant."

"No?"

He shakes his head. "No."

Nimueh releases his hand and reaches up to touch his hair. "Do not act in haste. The sea cannot be crossed for weeks yet, neither by wing nor sail, no matter who calls to you," she tells him, her voice unwontedly gentle. "Heed the counsel of your uncle and consider this crossroad carefully."

He nods. "I will. Thank you."

"Good lad." She withdraws her hand. "Go on."

They walk back to their home in silence; despite the late hour, Arthur knows he shan't sleep any more tonight. He sinks down to sit on his bedroll, drawing his knees up to his chest and hooking his arms around his legs. Uncle kneels to stoke the hurriedly-banked fire back to life, the lines in his face deep and severe in the unsteady light. "What do I do?" he asks at last, his voice small in the quiet air.

Uncle lets out a long sigh, eyes closing. When he raises his gaze back to Arthur, his dark eyes are pain-bruised and weary. "Cub…my will be done, you would never set foot in those forsaken kingdoms, but I fear the will behind this is far greater than anyone's, including my own. I cannot tell you," he replies at last. "You are your own man. Prophecy, destiny, fate…I hold no faith in such things. A man's life is his own, his choices are his to make. And this choice is yours alone."

Arthur swallows hard and rests his chin on a knee, staring into the fire. The idea of crossing the sea into Alba, where the Great Purge has scoured magic from the land and where following the Old Religion is to court death, makes him feel almost sick with fear, even as the pulse in his chest leaps. He does not want to go.

And yet…

"I want to go to Mynydd Tân," he says at last. "Mordred has true dreams, and Lord Balinor might know something of it as well." And if he is to cross the sea, then he will have to go on dragonback, as the barriers of protective magic anchored around the island keep ships from sailing too close to the shore, rendering outsiders disoriented and confused without quite understanding why. The natural magic of dragons allows them to fly though it unhindered. Still, the pain in Uncle Tristan's eyes is such that he can't bring himself to say it aloud.

Uncle nods once, a sharp jerk of his chin. "Very well. Rest if you can. Go in the morning."

Though he poses it as an order, Arthur knows his voice well enough to hear the quiet pleading underneath. "In the morning," he agrees.

* * *

The first time Arthur had made the journey across the island to Mynydd Tân, he had gone with Uncle Tristan. This time, he will go on his own. Uncle had asked him to stay a child for only a while longer, but he's no longer a child. These dreams, this calling, it is his and his alone.

When dawn comes, he's awake and ready, packing his belongings. All in all, there is not so much. His clothes. His fishing hooks and line. His knife and Carnwennan. His bow. His medicine bag, full of the herbs Nimueh says one should never be without. His mother's seal, which Uncle had given him when he was one-and-ten. It seems so strange to him, that all of his life so far can be folded up into a single knapsack.

"Do not forget this," Uncle says in a low voice, drawing his gaze up.

Arthur inhales a sharp breath when he sees what is being held out to him: Uncle Tristan's longsword. "I-I can't, Uncle, that…it's yours." He's been practicing with it for near two years now, and yet in his mind, it has always been his uncle's sword, not his own.

"It was mine. Now it is yours," he replies, still holding it out. "Take it. If you go to Alba, you will need more than your wood knife, and it does me no good here, collecting only rust and cobwebs."

Tightness closes up his throat, and he reaches up to take the familiar scabbard, old and scratched yet firm, rolling up the sword in his blanket, fastening it to his knapsack. He understands. If he decides to go to Alba, he will not come back to their cave again. He won't return until he _returns._ If he even does.

As he gets to his feet, Arthur opens his mouth, then closes it again. There is nothing he can say that will ever come close. Uncle Tristan nods once and steps to him, his embrace hard and fierce. "Little bear," he murmurs, and that only.

Arthur draws away and grabs his knapsack, clumsily hauling it over a shoulder as he hastens away. He doesn't run, but it's a near thing, fleeing his home towards the beginning of _háligweorc_ land, the pathways that will bring him across the island. He isn't certain how long he walks, keeping half an eye on the intermittent stone markers carved with runes that mark the _háligweorc_ paths. Even when his feet and legs begin to ache, he doesn't slow his pace, putting distance between himself and home. The spark hums. His heart aches.

A wyvern's shadow falls over him as he makes his way across a broad clearing, brittle winter grass crunching loudly under his boots. That in itself isn't so uncommon. Dragons sleep deep in winter, but wyverns do not. What is uncommon, however, is the ringing shriek that splits the cool air. The shadow circles back around towards, him, growing larger in far too swift a time. Arthur curses aloud as he drops to his knees, arms coming up over his head; the wyvern passes so close over him he can feel the breeze of its passing. Before he can grab his sword, the wyvern tries to land, but having come in too swiftly, it only manages to go tumbling over itself into the grasses in a shrieking tangle of wings and limbs and tail, yelping in alarm.

Another, more familiar voice is audible even over the racket. "Dagda Mor, what is _wrong_ with you, you overgrown _lizard?_ Are you trying to kill us both?"

Arthur lowers his arms and straightens up. _"Merlin?"_

To his shock, his friend's tattooed face pops up out of the grass, looking absurdly like the stoat Arthur always compares him to, a few stalks of grass caught up in his braids. "Arthur!" Scrabbling to his feet, he sprints across the clearing to fling both arms around Arthur, tipping them both off-balance and sending them down to the ground again.

"What in seven hells are you doing?" Arthur asks, laughing despite himself, then looks past his friend as a familiar shadow falls over them. "Zann! You clumsy beast, you near took my head off!" he scolds. The wyvern lets out a loud honk and wriggles all over in delight, shoving his great horned head down to confer, snuffling at them.

"I was coming to see you," Merlin says as he shifts over to sit beside Arthur instead of atop him.

It's only then that Arthur gets a proper look at him, and he realises that Merlin doesn't look at all himself. His hair is barely braided, and what braids he does have in are clumsily done and half-unraveled. Ruffled from their…irregular landing, he is dressed in a cloak of strange silvery fabric that doesn't seem to hold a single colour, vambraces covering his forearms and the backs of his hands, and a long, deep blue tunic of what almost appears to be snakeskin, but there is no snake so large, not that he knows of. And lying beside him is a staff of dark wood, the tip of it bearing not a metal spearhead, but a splinter of amber-coloured stone that almost seems to have grown from the wood itself, as though it is all one natural piece. "What sort of welcome were you expecting?" he asks.

Merlin huffs out a breath, staring at him with a baffling look of relief on his face. "I don't know, but…I had the most terrible dream last night, like nothing else I've ever dreamt before, and I…I wanted to make sure you were safe," he explains in a faltering, awkward voice, as if expecting Arthur to laugh and call him a nanny goat.

Arthur, however, feels no such levity. "A dream?" he echoes. "Tell me."

He does. Merlin had not dreamt of the woman with the sword, nor the dead-smelling white mist. He _had_ dreamt of Arthur and the blade in his heart, though he hadn't seen who wielded it. He had also dreamt of flowers blooming from ground covered in bones, dragon eggs hidden in stone, and a golden crown melting. And the sea.

"What do you suppose this means?" Merlin asks once Arthur tells him of his own terrible dream, of Nimueh's counsel, and his own choice to come to Mynydd Tân to see what he could learn and decide what to do.

"I was coming to ask _you_ that question," Arthur replies with a wry snort. He reaches up to scratch the rough hinge of Zann's jaw, shaking his head. "Do you suppose this is the work of the Old Ones? Sending us to a place they have been cast away from?"

"The Old Ones are part of the earth, they cannot be_ cast away_ from anything," Merlin replies sternly, but then he is quiet a long moment, biting at his lower lip. When he speaks again, he does so slowly, as if measuring each word before speaking it. "The gods do not reckon time the way we do, and though they are always listening, they answer prayers sideways at best, if at all. Perhaps you and I have been chosen for it, perhaps there is something of us that can help those who still suffer in Alba."

"Destiny," Arthur says, frowning. "Why us?"

"Why anyone?" A bony elbow jostles him. "I know what you think of destiny, but Arthur…our choices are our own. No one can take them from us. Not even the Old Ones. Even if we have been given this task, we can choose not to take it," Merlin reminds him. He turns his head, looking around. Looking east. Towards Alba. After a moment, his gold-flecked gaze turns back to Arthur. "We need not go."

He nods in silent agreement, but then he poses another question. "But who will we be if we stay?"

Merlin presses his lips together, then casts a sideways glance at Arthur. "What will you?"

What does he will? Until now, no one had actually asked him that. Nimueh had told him to listen to his uncle, but Uncle Tristan had told him the choice was his own, no more. Arthur takes a deep breath and holds it in a moment before letting it out again, then pushes to his feet. Half-heartedly brushing at the dirt and grass on his trousers, he grabs his knapsack and shoulders it once more, aware of Merlin watching him. "Can a wyvern fly all the way to Alba, or will I have to ask one of the dragons?"

"On its own, a wyvern might make the journey. But not carrying the both of us and our belongings. Kilgharrah could, but he won't leave Mynydd Tân until spring and pretends to be deaf until then, too. The best one other than him would be Rhyone."

He raises his brows. "The both of us? And who says you are coming with me?"

"I do."

"I don't need a nursemaid, _Mer_lin."

A slow smile plays at the corner of Merlin's mouth, tilting his head up to look at Arthur. "What of a friend?"

"Aye." Arthur extends a hand to him. "That I could do with."

The little half-smile becomes a full grin, creasing the corners of his eyes. "Good." Merlin reaches up to grasp Arthur's hand, letting himself be pulled to his feet, but he doesn't drop his hand, squeezing gently around Arthur's fingers. "Come on. Zann can get us both back to Mynydd Tân. And I'll let _you_ be the one to wake up Rhyone."


	7. Across the Bitter Sea

Despite all the urgency of their mirroring dreams, Merlin and Arthur cannot leave the island so swiftly. As Nimueh had told Arthur, the winter weather makes the sea uncrossable by wave or by wind, and dragons rouse slowly from their winter slumber. The Great Dragon who will take them across to Alba, Rhyone, will not be capable for at least a fortnight.

It is a tension-wrought fortnight.

Neither Hunith nor Balinor want Merlin to go to Alba, their firstborn and heir. If there are any more loathed than sorcerers, it would be the Dragonlords, and they both try to coax him to stay, insisting that his tattoos would give him away, that he would surely be found out. Arthur knows well how stubborn his friend can be. Merlin weaves a glamour about himself that hides his tattoos as though they had never been at all. And as strange as it had been for Arthur to see Merlin with his marks, it is even stranger to see him without them.

"It's been quiet for a while now," Arthur remarks in a low voice, sitting on the edge of one of the open walkways that cross the shaft of the hollow mountain. His feet dangle in the empty air, a direct drop downwards into the very bowels of Mynydd Tân. "What do you think?" He's not taken any part of their 'discussions.' He isn't their son, and they have no say on his choices. Such has already been settled for him; thinking of Uncle makes his chest ache, so he tries to push it away.

Mordred shrugs one shoulder, the gesture sitting awkward on his changing frame. He's growing into himself, though he's not yet of age to undergo whatever pilgrimage or rite of the Dragonlords that earns them their marks. "Mother is sad, but she understands. I think Father is afraid more than anything. He nearly died in Camelot, you know. He and Kilgharrah," he says, looking up at Arthur with solemn blue eyes so like his mother and brother's.

Arthur nods. He's heard about Camelot, the rich and prosperous kingdom where the Great Purge had begun. Casting a glance down at the boy, he asks, "What do _you_ think?"

The boy is quiet for a long moment, weighing the question with all the gravity a boy of one-and-ten can muster. For Mordred, it's surprisingly a lot. "I think you're needed. Both of you," he says at last. "I don't know what will happen if you don't go. But I don't think either of you will ever be happy with staying."

He nods again, picking at a small chip in the edge of the walkway. "Have you ever had a true dream about me?"

"Once, a long time ago. It was about you and Merlin. I don't remember all of it now, but…there was a man with two faces."

"Two faces?" Arthur echoes. "How is that? Does he have one on either side of his head? Or does he wear a mask?"

Mordred shakes his head. "No. He has one face, and then he has another."

He starts to open his mouth to ask what that means, if the boy even knows, but a solemn voice speaks his name. When he turns, he sees Balinor standing there, his deep gaze inscrutable and his face set in grim lines. Touching Mordred's shoulder in silent farewell, Arthur rises and follows the unspoken summons. Without a word, Balinor leads him into one of the few chambers in Mynydd Tân with an actual door—his private study, Arthur realises, seeing a desk full of pages and scrolls. Hunith is sitting on the edge of the desk, and Merlin is on his feet, looking as though he's only just stopped pacing a track into the floor.

"Sit," Balinor says, gesturing to the chairs set in front of his desk. "Both of you."

Arthur sits down; Merlin stays on his feet a moment longer for stubbornness, then takes the other seat.

Sinking down heavily into his own chair, Balinor is quiet for a moment, gazing across the desk at them with his deep, dark eyes that always remind Arthur somewhat of Uncle Tristan, though they lack his uncle's familiar warmth. "Are you certain?" he says.

"Yes," Arthur says in unison with Merlin, the two exchanging a glance.

"Then you will need to understand where you are going. There is no _háligweorc_ land in Alba. The cities are walled in, made of stone. Being surrounded by them…it shan't be a pleasant experience," he explains, and Arthur frowns a little in bemusement. He's warning them of a stone city…when they live in a _mountain?_ Reading Arthur's face, Balinor adds, "Walls made by man are nothing like walls shaped by nature. People will be suspicious of you because you are not like them, and if you are not careful, suspicion will turn to condemnation in a heartbeat, and they'll hunt you as if you are beasts and not men." His hands tighten around the arms of his chair in quiet anger, and Arthur remembers that he had been hunted so. Taking a deep breath, the man goes on in a smoother tone, "You won't be able to live freely, either. There are riches aplenty in the mines. And understand…you cannot tell anyone the truth of yourselves. They will kill you if they know you are children of the Old Religion."

"I understand, Father," Merlin replies softly.

"I understand, lord." Arthur nods.

Balinor pushes to his feet. "Make yourselves ready. Rhyone has said she will make the flight two days hence," he orders, turning and striding out of the chamber, leaving them sitting there in silence.

Once the sound of his footsteps fade in the corridor, Hunith moves closer and reaches out to stroke a hand over Merlin's hair, twisting one of his braids around her fingertip. "He only fears for you, my heart," she murmurs. Her gaze moves to Arthur. "For both of you. Be careful."

"We will," Arthur promises, and to his surprise, she moves to him, folding her arms around his shoulders and pulling him into an embrace. Her grip is gentler than Uncle's but no less affectionate for it. Resting his head against her for a moment, breathing in the smell of lemons and violets, he asks in a small voice, "Uncle might not stay in our cave anymore. Without me there, I mean. Will you…?"

"Send word, and I'll see he receives it," Hunith says, understanding. She smooths a hand down his hair and leans over to kiss his brow. "Go pack."

* * *

Two days have never passed so quickly.

Arthur shivers as he makes his way up the sharp, rocky cliff towards where the Great Dragon waits for them. She isn't so large as Kilgharrah, and her scales are the colour of hammered bronze, glittering with streaks of red and gold and brown in the brittle wintry sun. "Young master," she greets in a voice like stones grinding together yet unmistakably female, somehow articulating each word clearly past the muzzle of sharp fangs.

"Thank you for this, my lady," he says past chattering teeth, bowing. He's endured colder winters, and he has done so without the benefit of wearing an additional layer of clothing and a cloak. This chill, however, comes from within, not without. "I know you do not enjoy being roused."

"Ah, I'll take no harm from stirring my blood a bit." Rhyone shifts her bulk with a scraping of scale on stone, resettling her wings. "It will prevent me from growing as stiff as Kilgharrah, at any rate."

"You've done this before?" he asks, thankful she speaks to him in the tongue of men. He's been learning dragontongue as fast as Merlin can teach it to him, but their language is vastly complex, and he suspects he has a dreadful accent, too.

"Indeed. I've often made this journey, though I will admit this is the first time I have ever taken someone _away _from here," she muses, then lowers her great horned head until one golden-red eye is level with him. "I can see the bright shadow of the Old Ones about you. They've left their fingerprints all over you, little one."

He snorts, reaching up to tuck his hands beneath his arms. "I would prefer they keep their hands to themselves," he remarks, and she outright laughs at that, making the slate beneath his feet vibrate. "When will we arrive?"

"Leaving now, you'll arrive late into the night, I'm afraid. It is best if I am not seen, and men see poorly in the dark. I do not."

"Arthur." Merlin approaches him. He's once more dressed in his cloak of changeable colour, vambraces, and long tunic, which is made not from the hide of a serpent but a firedrake. The scales are fireproof and lightweight, and will serve him better than any steel maille. "It's time."

His heart rabbits a little faster, but he nods jerkily, turning to look up at Rhyone. "By your leave, my lady."

She dips her head in elegant reply, then lowers her forequarters, bringing one shoulder low to the ground, foreleg bent. Arthur looks to Merlin for direction. He has ridden dragonback before; however, he has only ever ridden a wyvern or one of the major dragons, which are perhaps half again the size of a particularly large destrier. Not one of the Great Dragons, who could fill an entire dining hall in Mynydd Tân without even unfolding her wings.

Merlin walks up to Rhyone and uses her foreleg to climb up onto her broad back; Arthur doesn't manage it quite so neatly as the Dragonlord, but he manages to get up onto Rhyone's back without falling off. They cannot ride upon her neck behind her head, as her crown spines are as long as a man's leg and wickedly sharp, so they will have to sit on her shoulders before her wing joints. "What do I hold onto?" he asks as he tries to sit himself comfortably behind Merlin. Her scales are hard and smooth as polished bone, laid together so tightly there's no place for him to properly grip.

"Your best bet is myself," Merlin replies with a halfhearted smile. "I won't fall."

Arthur nods and curls his hands tightly at Merlin's waist.

There's a great rush of air as Rhyone unfurls her wings, sails the colour of blood. Arthur tightens his grip, bracing himself, and casts a glance back over his shoulder at Mynydd Tân behind them. Upon one of the high cliffs, he can see four small figures watching them. Three are dark-haired, but the fourth is fair. He inhales sharply, but then Rhyone's back ripples, and she flings herself from the cliff into the air, snatching away his awareness of everything other than the roar of the wind around him and the never-ending sea that yawns beneath them.

He cannot say how long they fly. Though it must surely be hours, it almost seems to pass in a span of heartbeats to Arthur, his face buried in Merlin's back, both arms clutched tightly around his waist. Suddenly, though, the roaring wind begins to quiet, Rhyone's tide-steady wingbeats shortening as she draws up, and he can feel the impact of her landing shudder all the way through his bones. He tries to open his eyes, but finds he cannot, as the salt spray and cold air has frosted his lashes together. Stiffly drawing one arm from around Merlin's waist, he rubs one sleeve over his eyes until he can open them, squinting. For a moment, it almost seems as though they haven't left the island at all, for Rhyone is perched upon a cliff near the same as the one she had departed from. Except there is no Mynydd Tân. There is only a snow-blanketed forest that stretches far inland, bleached pale by moonlight.

His limbs are solid and numb with cold. He doesn't so much as climb down from Rhyone's back as he does fall, sliding down her shoulder and tumbling roughly to the ground. The impact jars him sharply back to himself, and he sits up clumsily, coughing. Merlin manages to keep his feet when he slides down from Rhyone's back, but he staggers as well, stumbling back a step and then falling over on his backside.

"I cannot stay, little ones," Rhyone murmurs, her voice unwontedly soft despite its enormity. She uncurls one foreclaw gently, depositing their belongings on the ground, and then, lowering her great head, she breathes out over them, melting the frost from their clothes and lending them a measure of warmth back. "May the Maiden have mercy on you both." With that, she turns away and takes to the air again, her wings stirring a flurry of powdery snow around them.

Arthur manages to get to his feet, albeit a trifle unsteady, and watches as the Great Dragon's form grows smaller and smaller with each stroke of her vast wings, a different shade of darkness against the night sky. And then she is lost to his sight, and it is only himself and Merlin on this empty stretch of cliffside.

They are in Alba.

Suddenly, it is hard for him to breathe, and a wave of dizziness sweeps over him, staggering him as sure as a blow. Small spots of brightness wink around the corners of his vision. Bile rises in his throat. He falters back a step and sits down heavily, nearly biting the tip of his tongue, and he bows his head down between his knees until he's certain he won't be sick on himself. Pulse in his mouth, Arthur tilts his head back and draws in deep pulls of cold salt air, trying will his heart to slow, and he finds himself gazing up at the stars, all perfectly clear and bright in the wintry sky. His gaze shifts to the familiar sight of Polaris and Little Bear. Traces the shape of Mother Bear beside it. The terrible tightness in his chest loosens by degrees, and he can inhale a little easier.

He gets to his feet slowly, cursing under his breath, his cold-stiff joints unbending painfully. Staggering over to where Merlin kneels, gazing out at the sea still, he grabs his knapsack and nudges his friend with one boot. "Merlin. _Merlin._ Hey, clotpole!" he says loudly, and the use of the nonsense word finally draws Merlin's attention to him, gold-sparked eyes surprised in his too-pale face. "We'll freeze if we sit out here like this. Come on. On your feet." He holds out a hand.

Merlin blinks at him twice, then gives a dazed nod and takes Arthur's hand to be pulled up. Taking up his own bag, they make their way down the slope of the cliffs towards the forests that are further inland, snow crunching softly beneath their boots. The sound of the sea is muffled by the snowy trees once they cross the treeline, the salt of the air being replaced by the more familiar scent of cold and resin. Keeping firm hold of Merlin's sleeve, he leads the young man through to a cluster of close-growing quickbeams. Their limbs have grown together so close and tight that the ground beneath them is largely clear of snow. And beyond them, he can see the dark opening of a small cave in the hillside. "Traveler's tree indeed," he murmurs.

_"Léoht,"_ Merlin says as they push forward, and a small orb of blue light appears in the air before them.

Arthur peers further into the cave, then sighs in relief. "Come on, we can stay in here." The cavern is more of a hollowing than a proper cave, much too small to house a bear or any other manner of beast, but it's enough room for them to bed down for a night. They set up a small camp in short order, Merlin fixing a small fire with another spell, as the wood is too damp to be lit by hand; Arthur takes out a few pieces of oatcake from their provisions. It's dry and crumbling, but it'll hold them over until morning when he can go hunt properly.

As he washes down the last piece of floury cake with a good deal of water, so cold it makes his mouth ache, he watches with faint amusement as Merlin makes a third attempt at untangling his braids, which have been windblown into a truly wild mess. "Would you like for me to help you?" Arthur asks once Merlin swears for a third time. His voice is hoarse and cracked, but still his. He is still himself.

Huffing, Merlin drops his hands from his hair. "Would you? I can manage when I can see what I am doing, but it's harder to do blind."

Arthur gathers up his blanket around his shoulders and shuffles over on his knees to kneel behind his friend. Carefully, he begins plucking apart Merlin's wind-tangled mane and smooths out his curls with gentle fingers before starting on the small braids. "Why do you do this?" he asks, plucking apart another knotted piece of wax thread and unraveling the braid it bound. "I've always wondered. Why the men and not the women?"

Merlin's eyes are half-lidded and drowsy, relaxing back into Arthur's touch. "Mother says it's to teach us patience, which all men need to learn."

"Huh. No wonder Uncle gets along with your mother so well." Uncle Tristan says near the same thing, that the most formidable weapon anyone can wield is patience. He still remembers spending hours upon hours afield, tracking beasts across the forest and back again. Once, he had come so close to a doe that he touched her russet flank before she fled him.

They both grow silent, thinking of the family they have left behind, the only sound being the snap and crack of the fire and the sighing of the wind outside. Arthur runs his fingers through one last time to ensure there are no lingering tangles and ruffles Merlin's hair. "There. You're done," he murmurs, shifting back to sit down beside him. "Where do we go now?" he wonders.

Merlin huffs a laugh. "You know, I haven't the faintest idea."

Arthur shakes out his blanket, layers it over Merlin's, and folds the doubled fabric around them both. It's warmer this way, and even though a part of him thrills to be so close to Merlin, he is still half in a state of shock, his desire banked beneath it. "The Old Ones have sent us to this damned place, they might at least give us direction now that we're here," he mutters, and Merlin digs a sharp elbow into his ribs, muttering somewhat about blasphemy and irreverence. "Oh, calm your pepper, would you? I'm sure they're used to my blasphemy by now." They're both quiet again for a time, the shared warmth of their bodies held beneath the layer of blankets. Finally, Arthur poses, "What of Camelot? The Great Purge began there. Perhaps there's an ending there, too."

"Fair thinking." Merlin huddles down further into the blankets, yawning widely. "Camelot, then. Father gave me a map. We'll get our bearings come morning." He leans further into Arthur's side, curly head coming to rest on his shoulder. "Will you stay? It feels colder here."

"Yes," Arthur agrees in a murmur. "It does, doesn't it?"


	8. Bravest and Most Noble

"Well, at least we needn't walk to the other end of Alba," Arthur says at last, scratching his jaw as he gazes down at the map.

Merlin had spread it out on the floor of their little hollow once they'd broken their fast on some of their dried provisions, speaking a spell of finding as he'd dropped a pine needle onto the thin hide. The needle had balanced itself on its point on the map, at the sea edge of a small kingdom beside Camelot, Gawant.

"It's the best she could have done without flying overland," Merlin agrees, tracing the path of her flight with a fingertip—to avoid crossing Éire, Rhyone had turned southward to circle around, approaching Alba over the sea of Meredoc. Camelot is very near landlocked, only touching the sea in two small places, and Arthur imagines they would have to be great port cities, far too dangerous for them to make landfall. "It'll still be a goodly walk to Camelot. What do you think we ought to do?"

Arthur sets his knapsack in his lap and peers through it for a moment, thinking. "We should save the gold your father gave us for when we get to Camelot. We've provisions enough to last us a good way, and I've my bow and my line," he proposes. He's been shooting for the pot for years, and even if these lands are foreign to him, hunting is hunting. He cannot imagine that the greenery here is so different that he cannot forage enough for them.

Nodding, Merlin rolls up the map and stows it back in his own knapsack, moving next to roll up his blanket and bedroll. "We should stay off the main roads proper. At least until we can see how best to act the part." He pauses in fastening the ties, a look of grief crossing his face. "I'll have to practice at not using my magic, won't I?"

"I'm sorry," Arthur replies softly. He rarely uses magic himself, but he knows that Merlin's gift comes to him natural as breath. He can't imagine how it would feel to purposefully restrain oneself so severely and so often, and he inwardly vows to find someplace in this accursed land where Merlin will be allowed to breathe again.

"It's…I'll manage." He pulls a small comb from the knapsack and, after a moment's pause, hesitantly holds it out towards Arthur. "Would you…?"

He takes the comb. "Of course." It doesn't take nearly as long as it had last night, as Merlin's hair isn't half so tangled, and Arthur is able-handed, used to tying snares and braiding cord to make rope. When he ties off the last small braid, Merlin turns to face him with his face unmarked. The glamour is so well-woven that anyone would believe it for his own skin even under close scrutiny, and it's only because of endless hours of lessons with Nimueh that Arthur can recognise the faintest glimmer of magic tracing Merlin's edges when looked at from the right angle, easily dismissed as a strange glint of sun. "You look so strange like this," he murmurs, tracing a fingertip where the outer black claw should rest.

"At least I still have this magic," Merlin answers wryly. Leaning away, he grabs his spear and uses it to lever himself to his feet. "Shall we?"

They have to break down a half-wall of snow that's built up in front of their little cave before ducking out. Arthur inhales deep through his mouth, taking in the bright smell-taste of snow and pine and winter, a pleasant burn in his chest. He keeps his bow in hand as they start walking, on the chance they might startle any game, letting Merlin lead them.

"Do you think it wise, having that here?" Arthur asks after a stretch of quiet, nodding towards the spear that Merlin uses to break up a packed snowdrift in their path. It is the same spear of polished black wood that he'd seen his friend with before, shaped as though it is all one piece—Rhongomyniad, one of the sister weapons to Carnwennan, which Arthur still wears on his cockatrice-hide belt.

"Aye. Mordred said I'll need it."

"One of his dreams?"

"Aye."

He wonders if they'll find Caledfwlch and Wynebgwrthucher in Camelot when they arrive, if perhaps they're hidden away somewhere. He knows the king has turned kinslayer and turned his back on the Old Religion, but maybe he had kept them for the power they held. It'd be a fine thing to see them returned to the Dragonlords. Merlin doesn't like swords, but he's handy with a staff; he could have Rhongomyniad and Carnwennan and Mordred could have Caledfwlch and Wynebgwrthucher. These brothers would take better care of their weaponry than Tudwal and Cenwyn.

They come across a road soon, a track worn through the middle of the forest, partially covered with snow but still passable. Arthur rakes his gaze up and down the roadside for a moment, then stops when he remembers that there are no markers because there is no _háligweorc_ land in Alba. No sanctuary. For some reason, that simple lack makes him shiver. "Which way?" he asks, shaking away his chill and tightening his grip on his bow for comfort.

Merlin points up the road; they continue their way in silence, the only sound being the soft crunch of snow under their feet. Arthur tries to imagine that he is home with Uncle Tristan, trudging through the snow as they go hunting together. He's so focused on his imaginings that he doesn't notice Merlin stop walking until he runs into his friend's back. "What are you—?"

Before he can finish the question, Merlin seizes his arm and drags him off the road and into the barren underbrush. Turning to face Arthur, he reaches up to place a hand over his eyes, inhales deeply, and exhales, blowing out softly; magic tingles gently across his skin, settling around them. When Merlin lowers his hand, Arthur blinks in amazement to see the world has _shifted_, dim and half-shadowed around them as though it is twilight and not mid-morning. "What…?"

_"Féth fíada,"_ Merlin replies, wide-eyed and a touch breathless. "It'll conceal us from any eye not already upon us. Father taught me before we left." His expression turns somewhat abashed, biting his bottom lip. "I'm not meant to show anyone else."

"Well, I promise I shan't tell him." A sound of voices reaches his ears, and he realises what had made Merlin startle—there's someone coming up the road towards them. Letting Merlin keep hold of his arm, he leans out slightly from behind the tree they'd ducked behind, peering up the road. "There's only three of them," he mutters, glancing back.

Merlin scowls at him. "I'm nervous, alright?"

"Will they hear us?"

"Not unless I will it so."

Arthur chuckles as he leans back against the tree. "Well, we'll just wait until they pass us," he says with amusement, reaching out to ruffle Merlin's hair teasingly, and his friend swats him in annoyance.

The voices grow clearer as the trio approaches, accompanied by the jingling of harnesses and the blowing of horses. "Christ a' mercy, I stay out in this any longer, my bollocks are like to freeze off," one voice complains loudly.

"Once we get our pay, you can warm 'em up again at Pearl's, so shut it, would you?"

"You can walk if you want to stay warm, and we'll let him ride," a third adds, earning a hearty laugh from the second.

"Walk yourself!" the first exclaims back, adding a few colourful words that Uncle Tristan would've boxed Arthur's ears for ever uttering. "I killed that old hag and her pet guard while you two were holding your cocks on the ridge with the crossbows, these are mine!"

Arthur throws a glance to Merlin, wondering if this magic veil has somehow impaired his hearing, but from the look on his friend's face, he hasn't. Stepping away from the tree, he drops his knapsack to the ground and draws an arrow, nocking it in his bow. Merlin wraps both hands around his spear. They edge around the tree towards the edge of the road.

The three men are far closer now, near enough to see that they're all dressed in ragged, heavy furs, the cold doing nothing to mask their stink, unkempt and sallow. Despite their appearances, they ride atop beautiful horses, matching bays with glossy coats; there's a fourth horse, riderless, tied to the saddle of one. And stumbling along after them is a fourth man as well. His hands are bound together and tied to another man's saddle, forcing him to either keep up or be dragged. He isn't nearly so well-dressed for the weather, either. The other three, their furs might be tattered and stinking, but they are certainly warm.

"What should we do?" Merlin murmurs.

Arthur hesitates. A part of him very much doubts that they've been called to Alba to act the saviour to every unfortunate soul they cross paths with, but he doesn't know how they can simply walk away. One of them has just confessed to murdering two people, stealing their horses. And they had spoken of pay. Pay for what? The fourth horse? Or the man they are dragging along with them? "We stop them," he replies.

"How?"

He nearly suggests Merlin use his magic to render the men unconscious or some other spell, but he bites his tongue on it. They'll have to acclimate themselves to not using magic, and this is as good an opportunity to begin as any. "I'll take the one in the middle, then the right. Take the one on the left, see if you can cut him free," he says instead, nodding towards the bound man. "The other horse might spook, be careful. Ready?"

Merlin takes a step away from him, shifting his grip on his spear. "Yes."

Arthur draws his bow. "Unveil us."

There is no word spoken, but the gentle twilight surrounding them flees, exposing them to dazzling sunlight once more. Arthur looses his bow. He's never killed anything more than a deer. He's never drawn against another person. Still, he knows the law of Mynydd Tân, and he has borne witness to trials and their outcomes. Death for death.

The arrow takes the second man high in the chest, rocking him back in the saddle with a startled cry. Merlin lunges forward, jabbing upwards with his spear, taking the first man low in the side; when he yanks back, blood sprays onto the snow in a vivid crimson arc. The third man curses as the other horse startles, yanking at its lead and jostling his horse, and then goes tumbling with a choked gurgle as an arrow finds his throat.

"Are you well?" Merlin asks as he catches the reins of the first man's horse before it can bolt and drag away the prisoner.

"I—yes, th-thank you," the man stutters out, blinking dazedly.

Arthur shoulders his bow and draws Carnwennan, slashing through the tough rope lead before beginning to carefully saw through the knotted loops binding the man's wrists. "What is your name?" he asks. Up close, he sees that the man isn't truly a _man_ at all. He's probably no older than Merlin or himself, and there's a look about him that reminds him of Serafin and Raul, young Dragonlords hailing from Aragonia that'd been their playmates at the conclave.

"Where did you come from?" the boy asks instead, staring at them. "You—you weren't there a moment ago, you _weren't_. How did you _do_ that? And _what_ is on your _face?"_

Arthur glances at Merlin and swears softly. When he'd dispelled the _féth fíada,_ he must've accidentally dispelled his own glamour as well, for his tattoos stand out bold and savage.

"My…?" Merlin reaches up to touch his cheek, eyes turning to Arthur in silent question, and he nods in confirmation. "Oh, seven hells. We're _terrible_ at this," he groans.

"Was that…did you do _magic?"_ the boy asks in a furtive whisper, staring at them with wide, dark eyes. "Are you _sorcerers?"_

"No," Arthur exclaims just as Merlin squawks, "Of course not!"

The boy looks between them with narrowed eyes as he rubs at the raw marks around his wrists, flexing his fingers to get his blood moving again. "Right. And people are able to simply conjure themselves out of thin air whenever they wish _without_ the use of magic," he drawls out, but then his expression softens, voice gentling as well. "I shan't tell. I promise. You've saved my life. I owe you both a debt."

Arthur gazes at Merlin for a long moment, silently putting the question to him. Merlin is the true sorcerer of the pair of them, it's his secret and his discretion. Merlin presses his lips together, no doubt thinking of his father and the morbid warning Balinor had given them before their departure. Finally, he says, "What good is the promise of an Alban to me?"

The boy draws up with a frown, stung. "I'm no oathbreaker!"

"You've made no oath," Arthur points out.

"I…well. True." Clearing his throat, the boy presses his fist over his heart and addresses them both in a solemn, formal tone, "I give you my solemn oath, sworn on mine own honour, to fulfil the life debt between us by never speaking of your magic to another."

He's not sure if the honour of an Alban is worth much more than his promise, but holds his tongue on the comment. The boy seems appropriately serious about his oath, dark eyes taking on a grave cast that makes him seem much older. "We are on our way to the city of Camelot. Do you know it?"

The boy blinks at them. "Know it?" He reaches up to scratch at his hair, a strange expression on his face as he looks between them again. "You two are certainly not from here, are you? Yes, I know the city of Camelot. The better question is why in seven hells you two would _ever_ want to go there."

"We don't," Merlin answers, planting the butt of his spear in the snow. The crystal point gleams gold and red in the brittle sunlight, reflecting strange splinters of light on the snow. "But there is a matter of destiny that must be settled, and we think it begins there."

"Destiny," the boy repeats flatly, and then a weak laugh escapes him. "Right. Well, I can lead you there, if you're in need of a guide. If not, I'll beg leave to take one of those horses so I can find someplace warm before the next snowfall."

Arthur glances at the horses, which haven't bolted and are now huddling closer to one another for warmth, then back to Merlin, holding an entire conversation without a word. A guide would be a fine thing to have. They'd certainly reach Camelot faster, and it would help them to better act their part. And even though there is danger in having someone know of their magic, wouldn't that danger be far lessened if they have him close, where they can keep an eye on him? And keep him quiet if need be? Arthur runs a fingertip over his bowstring.

Merlin rolls his weight from his left foot to his right. "A guide would be appreciated, thank you," he says at last. "We could pay you if…?"

The boy shakes his head, smiling a little. "No, no, that shan't be necessary. I imagine I'll be paid well enough in adventure with the pair of you," he answers with a wry chuckle, rubbing his hands over his arms. "Well, if I am to be your guide, then I would suggest we take those horses and make down this road here. We make good pace, and we can reach town just after nightfall."

"Back? You are telling us to go backwards?" Arthur prompts with a frown. "As a guide, you are not doing well."

"Maybe, but I won't be much of a guide if I freeze to death," the boy replies, holding out his arms to make point of his admittedly woeful attire, certainly not made for winter travel. "I was only going to get water from the well when those men took me, I wasn't prepared for trudging a dozen leagues in the snow. I cannot feel my hands as it is, and my feet are not faring much better."

"How far until we reach another steading this way?" Arthur asks, pointing up the road, the direction he and Merlin had been going before.

"At least a day and a half, but…"

"You're of size with me." He unshoulders his knapsack, pulls his blanket free of its ties, and tosses it towards the boy, who catches it with an expression of incredulity. "Unless you have fleas—"

"I do not!"

"—then I have no objection to you borrowing my clothes. We will go forward, not backwards, and when we reach the next steading, you may get yourself new boots." Turning around, Arthur approaches the nearest of the horses. He has never ridden a horse proper, but they cannot be much different than wyverns. They are not much larger, and horses do not have nearly so many spines and claws. He reaches up to scratch its forelock and blows softly in its nostrils, letting it get the scent of him. It whickers softly and lips at his hair with a snort. After studying the saddle a moment, he places a foot in the stirrup and pulls himself astride, settling himself and gathering up the reins in both hands. Not so different from a wyvern at all. The boy and Merlin are both still watching him, the latter with amusement, the former with disbelief. "Well? Are you coming?"

Merlin chortles as he walks over to another of the horses, fastening Rhongomyniad to its saddle. He mounts up with a touch more grace, more used to riding than Arthur, and gathers the reins, clicking his tongue at the fourth, which is tethered to his saddle still. After a moment of hesitation, the boy shakes his head and takes the other.

"My name is Arthur, and this is my companion, Merlin. You know, you never did give me an answer. Have you a name, or should we give you one?" Arthur prompts as they start forward. The horses have a pleasant gait, easy for him to ride with.

The boy, now bundled in Arthur's blanket and looking somewhat less miserable for it, gives a laugh. "Lancelot. My name's Lancelot."


	9. Revelations

Lancelot wonders if perhaps he had done something in another life to earn the companionship of Merlin and Arthur. He's still not certain if it is good or bad yet, but they are certainly interesting. Two days into Gawant, and he's had his world tilted on its head no fewer than a dozen times. They are both just so very _strange_ to him. But foreign and peculiar and betimes rude though they are, he likes them.

"Will you tell us about Camelot?" Arthur asks as he skins a hare for their supper, blood and fur up to the elbows.

"I'm not sure what you want me to tell you. I lived in the Northern Plains, not in the city," he replies uncertainly.

Sitting beside Arthur and combing out his hair, Merlin replies, "We've never lived in Alba at all. You still know more than us." Setting aside the comb, he runs both hands through his hair to resettle it, shaking out his curls. Combined with those black claws on his face, he looks like some fae creature from the hollow hill. Perhaps he is. Still, it doesn't give him quite the same shock as it had before.

Lancelot scratches his hair. "Well, perhaps you should tell me what you know first. I imagine that'll be easier." He understands they want him to help them play the part of natural-born Albans, but he's not certain how on earth he'll manage _that._

They exchange a brief glance. They do that often, look at one another as though they're somehow having an entire conversation in the span of a few heartbeats, and then Arthur says in a darker voice, "Camelot is where the Great Purge began. Uther turned kinslayer and prosecuted the Old Religion, killed everyone who dared breathe the word magic in his kingdom and anyone else who dared disagree with him."

Merlin leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Do you know why he turned against magic?"

"You don't?" Lancelot wonders, confused.

"Not so much. Father's always been infernally closed-mouthed on it, and I've given up asking him. So. Do you know?"

He shrugs as well. "There's been a lot of stories, but I don't know how true they are."

Arthur sets the spit over the fire to cook, then starts washing the blood off his hands. "Even the most fanciful story can grow from a seed of truth," he replies, unexpectedly sage. "Which have you heard the most?"

Lancelot plucks a twig from their meagre pile of firewood and starts picking at the bark with his fingernails, flicking the pieces into the fire. "Well, I know the King was married once before, and his first wife died just before the Purge began. I always heard that sorcerers came to Uther under a banner of peace, seeking alliance with Camelot, but instead of making terms, they sacrificed the queen to their gods for power and stole the infant prince for a changeling," he replies hesitantly, looking between them for their reaction. They are a proud and betimes prickly pair when it comes to the subject of magic, and they do not seem to take well to having their people disparaged in their hearing. Not for the first time, he wonders why on earth they would ever come to Camelot at all. A matter of destiny, they say. What is that is supposed to entail?

Arthur scowls and turns the spit. "That isn't how changelings work, and outside of a very few, very specific rituals in necromancy and some blood magics, there are no spells that call for living sacrifice, least of all human sacrifice."

"And Father already had an alliance with Camelot before then," Merlin adds.

He shrugs, peeling away another strip of bark. "Well, I certainly don't know of that, but that's what I've always heard," he replies. It's always been the one he believed in more, too, since a lot of the others tend to become far more fantastical, bloodthirsty, and unlikely. Tossing the twig into the fire, he looks between them. "Do you think that magic was involved?"

Again, they have another of those silent exchanges, pondering the question between them. Finally, Merlin answers, "I think that is one of the pieces of truth missing from that tale."

Lancelot shakes his head slowly. It would make sense if it was, and it must surely be a terrible thing to lose both a wife and a son, but…to kill so many people for it? People who have done no wrong? A shiver runs down his back to even think of such blood. The wrath of a king is a terrible thing indeed. Running both hands over his arms to dispel the faint chill, he goes on, "Well, Uther's remarried now, and he and Queen Vivienne have two children. Princess Morgana and Prince Madoc." He'd been too young to understand the mutterings at the time, but he knows that it'd been a topic of some interest when the King had taken another bride so soon after his first queen's death, not to mention a woman so recently widowed. Still, despite her somewhat ignominious marriage to the King, Queen Vivienne is both loved and respected, the prince and princess even more so.

Arthur chuckles as he takes the hares off the fire and begins carving off portions for them. "I wonder if his children know they are kin to the sorcerers Uther hates so very much," he muses aloud, sounding deeply entertained by the prospect. He leans forward to hand over a haunch to Lancelot.

"Kin? What do you mean, kin?" he asks, taking the proffered share with careful fingers, trying not to burn himself or drop it. The meat, lean though it is, is still greasy and good.

Merlin chortles as he nibbles on the meat, the sound decidedly wry. "The Pendragons were once Dragonlords. They're a branch of the Ambrosius line, _my_ family line. Uther is a distant cousin to me. So are his children, apparently."

Lancelot gapes for a moment, then remembers himself and closes his mouth. "So that is why you called him kinslayer," he murmurs. The way they both say the word, as though there is no worse label to be given, makes him wonder just what it is they intend to _do_ when they reach Camelot. If Merlin can make himself unseen as he had whenever he wishes, if Arthur is a fair shot with that bow of his…. He shakes away the thought quickly, cutting it down sharply before it can grow any further. "How is the king kin to you?" he asks instead, curious.

Merlin tilts his head back thoughtfully. "We share a common ancestor in my great-great grandfather, Morfawr. His son Tudwal took up the Pendragon name for himself, then it was his children, Cynfawr, who died childless, and Aurelia, then it was _her_ son, Custennin…"

"The King's father was named Custennin," Lancelot supplies.

"Right, so that would make Uther my…third cousin?" he ventures, glancing at Arthur, who nods in agreement, having counted out on his fingers.

He shakes his head in faint disbelief, chuckling to himself. "You're kin to the royal family," he muses.

Across the fire, Merlin shakes his hair back and lifts his chin a touch. "The royal family is kin to _me."_

"As you say, _your highness,"_ Arthur drawls, and the young man shoves at him.

Lancelot grins at their antics, even though a part of him is still in quiet shock. He's always known that he'd be lucky to even see the King from a distance, much less ever stand directly in his presence, or the presence of his wife and children. Never in all his life would he think that he would ever be sharing supper and a fire with a noble. Not even a noble, but a prince in his own right, as far as he can understand these Dragonlords. Granted, looking at Merlin's hardy travelling attire, his tattooed face and half-braided hair, nobody would take him for any kind of nobility, much less royalty.

"So, what else do you know of Camelot?" Merlin asks as he pulls his spear into his lap and begins cleaning it, careful of the sharp edges on the stone spearhead. The weapon is strangely beautiful; looked at from the right angle, it seems to gleam around the edges.

"Uhm…" He scratches at his hair again, trying to think. The town he had been staying in before hadn't been very large, and it couldn't boast of a thriving rumour mill. Still, word has a way of travelling, especially when it has to do with court and crown. "Princess Morgana has been betrothed to Prince Urien of Rheged. There's been dissent in the Northern Plains because Lord Agravaine doesn't have an heir yet and—"

_"What_ did you say?"

Lancelot closes his mouth sharply at the snap in Arthur's tone, raising his gaze to the other boy. To his shock, Arthur is staring at him with eyes gone sea-dark in some strange mix of emotion. It isn't anger, or at least, not only anger, but also disbelief and shock and fear. "There is dissent—"

"His name. The lord you spoke of, what is his name?" Arthur demands.

"Agravaine, Agravaine du Bois of Snowgate," he says slowly, slightly unnerved by the way Arthur's hands are working in fists at his sides. "He's the queen's brother. The late queen, Uther's first wife. Ygraine."

"Dagda Mor," Merlin whispers, eyes widening.

Arthur is perfectly still for a long moment, his breath coming in short, quick little pants, and then he's shoving to his feet and striding away from the camp.

Lancelot stares at his retreating back, then looks back to Merlin, whose closed his eyes mutely, one hand over his mouth. "What is it? What did I say?" he asks hesitantly.

"I…it isn't my place to say," Merlin murmurs in a soft voice as he pushes to his feet. "Lancelot, I would ask you to stay here for a moment. Let me speak to him."

As he walks away from the camp, following after Arthur, Lancelot watches him go as well, wondering what in seven hells he's gotten himself into.

* * *

The heavy blanket of snow over the forest helps to muffle sound, casting a hushed air, but it doesn't stifle everything. Merlin follows the tracks in the snow until the sound of Arthur's ragged, gasping breath reaches his ears. He finds his friend in a clear space between the trees, bent over double with arms around his middle as though he's going to be sick, and he folds his arms beneath his arms and waits, watching him until he straightens up again, gasping for air as a drowning man might.

"The magics to create a life would demand a death," Arthur rasps out, his voice raw and choked. "Wouldn't they? A High Priestess could work them."

"Aye, they would," Merlin replies softly, eyes closing for a moment as the pieces align with terrible clarity in his mind, the truth that had been missing from Lancelot's tale. A king must have an heir, and if his wife had been barren, they might turn to a High Priestess to see what could be done. Except in order to create a life, a life must be given in return. A mother for a son. A queen for a prince.

"How many years?"

"Six-and-ten," he whispers. Six-and-ten years since the Great Purge began. Six-and-ten years since Ygraine du Bois died and her infant son was taken into her brother's care. Six-and-ten years of Arthur's life.

Arthur makes a strangled sound in his throat, an animal noise of pain. "That's why I was allowed into the conclave. That's why Uncle never told me about my fa—" He snaps his mouth shut on the word, shaking his head. "Oh, gods…." He leans over with hands on his knees, groaning. "He never told me. Why would he never _tell_ me?"

"I imagine it was his hope that you would never have to know." Merlin draws closer carefully, though he doesn't dare reach out to touch his friend just yet, aware of the tremors running through Arthur's frame. "It doesn't mean anything."

"How can you say that? I can't—it doesn't—" He shakes his head sharply, then speaks in a low, wretched voice, "I don't even know who I am, do I?"

"You're yourself," Merlin says firmly. He moves around to stand in front of his friend, grasping him by the shoulders and pushing him up somewhat to meet his gaze, pain-bruised and tear-bright. "You're _yourself,_ Arthur. Hear me, clotpole?"

Arthur closes his eyes for a moment, his lashes damp, and he takes a breath deep into his chest, letting it out slowly. "I hear you," he says softly.

"Good." Merlin steps in closer, sliding both arms around his neck and drawing him into an embrace, one hand rubbing up and down his back; Arthur leans into him with a faint sigh, head dropping to his shoulder, breath warm on his neck. Smiling, he combs his fingers through the back of Arthur's hair and murmurs, "Welcome to the family, cousin."

It works. Arthur snorts a laugh into the crook of his neck, and he sounds half himself again as he mutters, "Hells, that sounds like a nightmare and a half."

"You'll get used to it." He leans back to look into Arthur's face again. "Now, can we go back to camp before we freeze?"

"Aye, we can."

"What do you wish to tell Lancelot?"

He's quiet for a long moment, lips pressed together firmly, but then he says in a soft voice, "I don't know. I…I don't know that I want to tell him."

That's fair enough. "You needn't tell him now, but you should at least tell him something. I think you frightened him," Merlin muses with a wry smile, thinking of the wide-eyed expression on their new companion's face when Arthur had stormed away from the camp so suddenly.

Arthur huffs and rubs a hand over the nape of his neck, chagrined. "Mm. I think he'll have to get used to that," he replies, and Merlin snorts, reaching up to ruffle his hair as he would with Mordred. "Hey! Idiot."

"Come on. Back to camp. I'm freezing." Merlin slides an arm around his waist and tugs gently, guiding him back towards the camp as snow begins to fall again. As they make their way back towards the warm glow of the campfire, only just visible through the trees ahead, he casts a glance upward, wondering what kind of game is being played with them, why it feels as though they're merely die in a cup, being shaken and cast onto some vast, unseen game table.

The snow falls softly, and the Old Ones do not answer.


	10. Albans and Their Sensitivities

"Should I be worried he is going to kill me in my sleep?"

Merlin glances up from careful study of his grimoire, holding the book propped open on his knees, and follows Lancelot's nervous gaze over to where Arthur is cleaning the fish he'd caught for their breakfast, wielding his knife with perhaps a little more force than is strictly required. "No," he replies, clasping the book closer to his chest. "It isn't you he's upset with. Just let him be, he'll come around."

Arthur doesn't have it in him to stay angry for long, and he's more hurt than anything else, hurt that he'd been kept ignorant so long. He hadn't been lied to in words, but a lie of omission can wound just as deep. Merlin knows that he's a solitary creature still; he'll lick his wounds in private until the sting eases, then come back to them.

Lancelot turns his attention back to helping them break camp, packing up the kit he had bought for himself. After a moment, though, he looks up again. "Why is he upset again?"

"That isn't—"

"For you to say," he finishes with a nod. "So you've said."

Merlin flicks a twig at him. "And yet you still ask."

"You two are the most interesting thing that has ever happened to me in my life, and I do mean ever." He pauses, idly fiddling with a strap on his bag, and Merlin watches him, waiting for the next inevitable question. Instead, the boy gives him solemn eyes and says, "Forgive me. I'll not ask again if it is so painful."

He sighs, closing his grimoire with a finger between the pages to mark his place. "As I said, it isn't my story to tell, and it isn't my forgiveness you should seek. Ask him if you wish to know," he says gently, then smiles a little. "He shan't bite."

"Only if I am asked nicely," Arthur puts in smoothly as he walks over, the cleaned fish dangling from the line looped around his hand. Lancelot half-rises to take them from him, laying them in the small pan to be set on the fire. As he sits down beside Merlin, knocking an elbow into his arm, he sets his gaze on the other boy. "I doubt you would believe me if I told you."

"Yes, just as I am certain anyone would believe _me_ if I were to tell them I was travelling in the company of two sorcerers from a fabled island of dragons, one of whom is apparently a manner of royalty and kin to the royal family of Camelot," Lancelot answers in that innocently sarcastic way of his; Merlin snorts as he reopens his grimoire.

Arthur is quiet a moment as he sets to cleaning his hooks and rewinding his line up into a neat coil, moving with the ease of one long familiar with the motions. "And if I were to tell you that I am the son of Ygraine du Bois?"

Lancelot drops his knife in the fire as he attempts to turn the fish, yelps in dismay, and hastily grabs a piece of firewood to scrape the knife back out again. After staring down at the blade for a moment, he raises his gaze to Arthur. "You're right. I don't believe you," he retorts, then shakes his head, shoving a hand back through his hair. "That…that isn't possible…"

"Why is it not?" Merlin turns a page. He needs to find a way of making his glamour stick so that he shan't accidentally dispel it but not bind it so tightly it can't be dispelled at all. "Was the child ever found? Was there any trace of who had taken him?"

Lancelot opens his mouth, then closes it again. "Well, no, but…"

"My uncle is Tristan du Bois," Arthur says softly, gazing down at his hands as if he can somehow see his blood through his own skin. "My mother is his sister, and Ygraine is his only sister, just as Agravaine is his only brother."

_"Tristan?_ Tristan du Bois hasn't been seen for…"

"Six-and-ten years? Since Ygraine's death?"

The other boy stares at them with a mix of dismay and despair, both hands buried in his hair as his gaze flicks from Arthur to Merlin and back again, then press his palms over his eyes and shakes his head. "I must've been a debt collector in another life," he mutters softly. "I must have. A grave robber. A heretic."

"Lancelot?"

"No. No. Not another word. I don't wish to hear it. Next one of you will tell me that you can slip your skin and become a dragon or—or speak to the spirits of the dead or—"

"The fish is burning."

"The what? Oh!" Hastily snatching up his knife, he grabs the pan from the fire and tries to rescue their breakfast, but they've already burnt onto the pan, charred black on the one side.

Merlin leans forward to study the damage. "We can eat the other side." Raising his gaze to the other boy, he sees the somewhat glazed look on Lancelot's face, staring down blankly at the scorched fish, and bites back a wince. Perhaps they have stretched him too far with this. "Lancelot?" he says in a tentative voice, rubbing his thumb over the corner of the grimoire. He's never unravelled anyone's memories before, but he's read the spell enough. It shouldn't be hard to do. Four days isn't much to miss.

"I'm…thinking. Just allow me a moment," he says softly, turning his attention to scraping the fish from the pan with the side of his knife, turning them without breaking them apart. Once the fish are back in the pan to cook on their unburnt sides, he turns his gaze to Arthur, watching him without truly _watching_, the trick of a practiced hunter. "I don't believe you, but I don't think you believe it yourself, not truly. So." He shrugs and spreads his hands in front of him. "We'll see."

Arthur nods, the corner of his mouth twitching up. "Aye. We'll see." Tucking his fishing kit back into his pack, he jostles Merlin with his elbow again. "What are you doing, then, stoat?"

"Searching for a way to secure my glamour," he replies, kicking Arthur's ankle in retaliation and turning another page. "It won't do for me to forget to bind up the spell and have my claws reappear in the market, will it?" It would be best for him to have an anchor, but what could he use? It would have to be something he kept with him always. Not his clothes—it'd take far too long to bind the enchantment to it all, and he would have to do it all over again if he got new attire. No, he needs something smaller, something less transient…. "Oh! I have it. Hand me my pack."

"What do you have?" Lancelot asks, sounding more intrigued than stunned now, recovering handsomely from his shock.

"An anchor." Rummaging past his other belongings down to the bottom of his knapsack, he takes out his treasures, the few precious things he'd allowed himself, bundled up in one of his neckerchiefs—the wooden dragon Father had carved for him, a celadon silk scarf Mother had embroidered, the sea serpent scale he and Mordred had found in a cove, and…. "Ha!" He holds up his prize victoriously: a piece of grey stone shaped like a dragon curled up to sleep.

"You still have that?" Arthur's voice is unwontedly soft.

Merlin gives him a bemused smile, closing his hand around the familiar stone. "I always have it." Pricking his thumb with a sewing needle, he carefully smears a bit of blood onto the stone to better hold the spell, then unwinds a length of his mending thread and sets to fashioning a necklace out of it. It takes him three tries, as the stone is irregularly shaped, but he finally gets the right pattern of looping the thread to hold it secure, pulling the knots tight. He closes the whole thing in his fist, he reads the spell from his grimoire, anchoring the glamour not to himself but to the dragon-stone, twisting the spell in firm and solid as the rock it is bound to. This time, when he releases the magic, the glamour doesn't dissolve, clinging to the dragon-stone in an invisible mesh of golden threads all around it. "There!"

"Oh!" Lancelot exclaims, then snaps his mouth closed in haste, looking faintly abashed. "Forgive me, it's only…. Your eyes. I didn't see before. Do they always…do that?"

"Aye, they do." Untangling the cord, Merlin slips it over his head, the dragon-stone settling warm and solid against his breastbone as the glamour settles around him like a well-worn cloak. He knows that it's taken, for Lancelot gives another faint start looking at him, and Arthur's mouth twists in displeasure.

"That's uncanny," the Alban boy remarks with a shake of the head, but even so, he smiles with clear glee.

Arthur huffs, shifting his weight, and leans forward to draw the pan off the fire. "I should like to be gone soon." They've been making decent pace despite their avoidance of the main roads and any large steadings—_towns_ and _cities,_ Lancelot calls them. If they stay this pace, they'll make the border of Camelot before evening.

The fish is still edible despite its…distinctly smoky taste along the one side, and in short order, they're once more back on the horses and moving onwards.

As they ride, Merlin wonders yet again what it is they are meant to do in Camelot. A part of him dreads that they've been called to be the knife of the gods, but he prays it isn't so. The Old Ones themselves have set down kinslaying as one of the lowest sins to be committed. Would they truly send a child to murder his own sire? It makes an ill feeling coil up in the pit of his belly. Again, he prays that isn't true. Perhaps they are here to let those of Alba know that the Old Ones are not gone from this land, the Old Religion still has its place in the world for all their effort otherwise. For Arthur's sake, he hopes it to be so. His friend is softer than he would seem, and for all the ferocity in his heart, he loves far more readily than he hates. Merlin reaches up and gently clasps the dragon-stone around his neck, rubbing his thumb over the familiar shape of it.

"Hold," Lancelot calls, drawing him from his thoughts. Up ahead, the other boy glances up and down the road, then says a quiet oath. He turns in his saddle to look at Merlin and Arthur. "I know you would prefer to avoid the main roads, but we've not the choice now. This close to the border, the Knights of Camelot will be on patrol, and winter is a time of desperation. Sure as sunrise we'll be attacked again if we stay along this way, and if we are not, the knights will stop us."

"And if they do?" Arthur prompts.

"I imagine they'll name us horse thieves and hang us from the nearest sturdy branch."

Merlin presses his lips together and reaches forward to pat his mare's neck gently, feeling the faint flicker of distress from her placid thoughts. According to Lancelot, the horses had been taken by the men who had captured him as well, a team of four that'd pulled an elderly woman's carriage. They'd murdered her and her guards for their wealth and taken the horses, leaving the carriage to burn with the bodies. The fourth horse had been sold in the first steading—town—they had come to, in order to buy Lancelot his new attire and travelling gear. He likes his mare. He's given her no name, for she isn't his to name, but she acquiesces to his riding without fuss and lips at his hair when he brings her water. They could make the journey on foot if needed, but he'd rather not give her up.

Arthur scowls at him. "How will riding on the main road change this? If they will think we are horse thieves here, will they not think us horse thieves there?"

Lancelot frowns, working the reins around his hands as he struggles for words, a crease between his brows. "It's…it's different. No thief would ride a stolen horse down the main road, would they? Have faith, it is different, it's…"

_"Háligweorc."_ Both heads, fair and dark, turn towards him, one in puzzlement, the other in curiosity. Merlin looks to Arthur and sketches a gesture towards the horses and then towards the road._ "Háligweorc,"_ he repeats.

For a moment, Arthur is quiet, a furrow between his brows, but then he presses his lips together and nods. "Lead the way," he says to Lancelot. Perhaps Alba has no _háligweorc_ land, but there is a form of sanctuary to be found in the way they are perceived. Off the main roads, they are horse thieves hoping not to be seen. On them, they are travellers with the fortune to have good mounts.

Still seeming somewhat bemused, the other boy nods and pulls on the reins, turning his horse from the narrow trail they've been following thus far. Merlin meets Arthur's glower with a smile of his own and heels his mare forward gently, swatting at his arm with the reins as he passes. "Don't scowl so, you'll get wrinkles."

* * *

Arthur doesn't like riding this way. No matter that Lancelot claims it will be safer, or that Merlin agrees it is best, he doesn't like riding on the main road. It's far too open for his liking, and he has no desire to see any of these so-called knights. He wonders how many of them have slaughtered innocents under order of their king.

He tightens his grip on the reins, swallowing hard as the taste of bile rises in his throat at the thought of the king. He cannot think of the man as anything more, not yet. Closing his eyes for a moment, he focuses on the gentle gait of his mare, the rhythmic crunching of snow beneath her hooves, and the smell of horse and snow and cold trees around him until he can stand to open his eyes again, fixing his gaze on the familiar shape of Merlin's back, riding just ahead of him.

The sound of a scream, high and sharp in the brittle air, makes them all draw up short. For a moment, all three of them sit absolutely still, exchanging silent glances and wondering if perhaps they had only imagined it or if it was some animal caught in death's grip. Silence…. Another shrill scream. It comes from directly ahead of them, right in their path. And it is most certainly human.

"Not again," Arthur bemoans even as he dismounts, leaping down to his feet and unlashing his weapons from the saddle. Turning towards Lancelot, he calls, "Blade or bow?"

"Blade."

He tosses the sheathed longsword over to the other boy, taking up his bow. At his other side, Merlin already has his spear in hand, a grim determination in his face, and he says a stern word of command to the horses before they run towards the sound. The nearer they get, the sound of steel on steel becomes clear, coupled with the cries of men in pain and the snorting of horses.

When they clear the rise, Arthur can see the source. On the other side of the slope, a full assault is underway, easily a dozen men, though there are more dead than living now. A bright flag of red against the snow draws his gaze—the cape of one of the men still standing, brilliantly crimson, emblazoned with a gold dragon. A man of Camelot, then.

The idea of returning to the horses and continuing on crosses his mind, there and gone like a bird on the wing. Too late. Lancelot has already charged towards the battle, swinging the longsword with surprisingly good form, and Merlin is close on his heels with Rhongomyniad.

Arthur swears aloud and pulls an arrow, drawing his bow. One of the red-cloaked men is dueling two at once, holding his own but still being driven back by force. Letting his breath go, he levels his sights and releases. Now the man's only dueling one. Taking a better stance on the rise, he starts firing down into the melee whenever he has a clear shot; even though a shadowy temptation murmurs, he doesn't feather any of the red-cloaked Camelot men. It is still a thought.

By the time the last one falls, there's only three of the red cloaks still on their feet, a dozen more lying dead in the scarlet-churned snow. Before Arthur can start down the slope to join them, the three men turn on Lancelot and Merlin, swords raised and pointed towards them in warning.

"Dagda Mor," Arthur hisses out and snatches another arrow from the quiver, fitting it to his bow. Gods, he hates this damn kingdom already.

Before he can draw, there's a whisper of movement behind him, and then he feels a cold touch against his throat, the edge of the blade pressed firmly against his skin. A colder voice hisses in his ear, "Drop the bow or die."


	11. Blood to Blood

When he was a boy, first learning to hunt, Uncle Tristan would set him out in the wood on his own then sneak up on him at random times, testing his awareness and reflexes. If he couldn't hear a grown man approaching him, he'd certainly never be able to hear the stealthier predators of the world. When he began training with the longsword, he was taught how to wrestle, to avoid a blade, to escape an enemy's grasp.

As the blade presses harder against his throat, a thin stinging line of pain appearing, Arthur jerks his head backwards with all the force he can muster. White sparks burst behind his eyes as the back of his skull makes very solid contact with whoever stands behind him, eliciting a sharp cry of pain. The blade comes away from his throat, and he seizes the arm holding it, digging his thumb mercilessly into the soft underside of the wrist until the hand opens, dropping the blade, a slender short sword. He kicks it away hard, vanishing it into the snow, and, releasing the arm, he drives his elbow back sharply into a body. Two strides put fair space between them, and he whirls on heel to face his attacker, raising his bow and drawing it, holding the bowstring taut.

It's a girl, barely a woman, with deep black hair and silvery-green eyes, currently glaring at him in sparking rage. Her lip is cut and already swelling where his head had struck her, and her nose is bleeding as well, bright red against her fair skin. "What the _hell_ did you do that for?" she wheezes out, one hand pressed to her chest.

_"Me? _You're the one what held a blade to my throat after we damn well saved your hide!" Arthur snarls back, flexing his arm to keep from cramping, arrow still drawn.

"How was I to know you weren't one of them?" she snaps, voice sharper as she gets her breath back.

"Oh, I don't know, perhaps the fact that I was _shooting them!" _

"Lower your bow, boy!" a new voice interjects, and Arthur takes another step back as the three remaining red-cloaks come up the rise towards him with steel in hand. They must be knights, one going grey and two younger, maille coats gleaming in the brittle sun.

Close behind them are Lancelot and Merlin, both alive and seemingly unharmed, if well-ruffled. "Arthur, do as they say," Merlin insists with peculiar vehemence, gesturing with his free hand for emphasis; scowling, he relaxes his arm and lowers the bow, though he doesn't unstring the arrow just yet.

"Are you well, your highness?" the greying knight asks, not taking his narrowed eyes from Arthur. "Has this little barbarian harmed you?"

"No more than I harmed him, Kay," the girl-woman says, her voice coolly authoritive. "Put up your steel, all of you. These men have surely just saved all our lives, we shan't dishonour such valour by treating them thusly."

"Here, your highness," another girl says, having retrieved the light sword from the snow, using the edge of her cloak to wipe the snow from its hilt, handing it over.

Arthur blinks, turning his gaze between them. "Highness?" he echoes, the look of near-panic on Lancelot's face and Merlin's peculiar urgency beginning to make sense.

"Do you not know who you stand in the presence of, boy?" the shortest of the three spits at him; he doesn't have much space to be calling anyone _boy,_ given he's about as green as summer grass himself. "Or are you blind to what stands before you?"

Raising his brows, he rakes his gaze over the girl's admittedly rich attire, taking in the sable-lined cloak she wears, the heavy purple velvet and silver-threaded embroidery of her riding gown. Still. He isn't terribly impressed. "My friend and I once made his younger brother to put on a silk gown and their mother's sapphires. It did not make him mistress of the household."

The short knight turns a rather unfortunate shade of red, but surprisingly, the girls both snicker softly. "Well, intrepid rescuer, I am Morgana Pendragon, princess of Camelot. Did I hear your companion call you Arthur?"

"Aye, and this is Lancelot, and that unfortunate face there is Merlin," he introduces; low to his side, Merlin makes a rude gesture with one hand. Arthur smirks.

Morgana nods, but then her gaze shifts back to the three knights, the temporary flicker of humour falling from her expression as she takes in their numbers. "The rest of the escort…?" Her gaze slides past them, towards the bottom of the rise where the rest of the slain still lie.

The greying knight shakes his head once, solemn. "Dead, your highness. We were sore outnumbered."

Her lashes flicker slightly, but then she draws herself up, squaring her slender shoulders. "They'll be honoured for their sacrifice," she says in a firm tone. "Sir Kay, you are the most experienced of us and captain of my guard, thus I trust to your judgment now as to our next actions."

"We have not the time to burn the dead, and the ground will be frozen too fast for burial," the knight says. "These men might not have been alone. We should make for Camelot with all haste, your highness, and send a proper patrol to retrieve the fallen once you are safe. The cold will keep them."

"They killed the horses," the other young knight interjects in a low voice; he's the one Arthur had saved. "They meant for none of us to escape this road."

"We can take those," the short knight replies, nodding up the road.

Arthur narrows his eyes and shifts his grip on his bow. "They are not for you to take," he replies shortly.

Again, he turns that unfortunate colour, one hand going to the hilt of his sword almost unconsciously, but Merlin's voice cuts in, taking on that low, calming tone he uses when speaking to fractious wyverns, "We are bound for the city of Camelot ourselves, and we will all be better served by remaining together."

"Indeed," Morgana agrees, also giving the short knight a look of reproof. "Sir Kay?"

"Eight is fair better than five." Kay nods brusquely. "Let us go. I would not have us stay here any longer."

Arthur glares at Merlin as the princess and her party start up the road towards their horses, standing close to one another to stay warm, compelled by Merlin's command to stay. Whilst he thinks the matter of this damned destiny of theirs might be solved in Camelot, it doesn't damn well mean he wants to ride about with a princess. His half-sister. Goddess mercy, she's his sister, then. Merlin gives him a flat look and spreads his hands before him: _could you have done better? _And damn it all, Arthur couldn't have. At least this way, they'll be certain to arrive in Camelot with perhaps a measure of good grace upon them, and they will get their horses back as well.

Damn.

Shouldering his bow, he marches over to the horses. The short knight has already pulled himself astride Merlin's mount, the whoreson; the other girl and the soft-voiced knight are helping the princess up onto Arthur's mare. "I want my things first," he says. When he gets cool eyes from them, he folds his arms over his chest. "You are already taking my horse. I'd rather you not take the rest of my belongings as well."

"Fairly said," Morgana agrees. "Move aside, Leon."

The knight gives a nod and steps away. As he tugs at the straps of his knapsack, blowing on the buckles to thaw them, the princess gazes down at him with faint amusement. "Tell me, are you always so rude?" she asks, more humour in her tone than irritation. On her other side, Lancelot, in his usual helpful way, is assisting the other girl onto his horse.

"Am I rude?"

"Quite."

"Hm. I suppose so, then." He frees his pack and shoulders it. "I am, after all, a barbarian."

At that she gives a loud snort, then reaches up to touch the swollen corner of her mouth with a stifled wince. "A barbarian with an exceptionally hard head."

* * *

Morgana draws her cloak more securely around herself to keep in the warmth as she takes a few steps away from the camp. She doesn't leave sight of the others, close enough that they would be at her side in an instant were she to shout, but far enough to draw in a deep breath of the wintry air in the half-dark. Breathing in deeply makes her chest ache faintly, and she knows without needing to look down her bodice that there will be a sizable bruise on her chest. Arthur has an exceptionally hard head and exceptionally bony elbows, too, it seems. No low necklines for a while.

"Have you never seen a woman that you must stare so?" she asks, casting a sideways glance towards the dark trees.

"No."

"No, you have never seen a woman, or no, that isn't why you stare?"

Arthur shifts forward slightly into a shaft of moonlight, still gazing at her in that strange way of his. Not with desire. She's used to seeing that in the eyes of men who stare after her. Not with envy, either, or greed. No, there is something more like curiosity in his gaze, something searching. "My reasons are my own," he answers in that strange accent of his, unfamiliar yet pleasing to her ear. Merlin speaks with the same, though stronger; Lancelot doesn't.

"Where are you from, Arthur?" she muses. "I know your companion Lancelot is born to Camelot, but you two…are not." It is not only their strange inflection, but the air of _wildness_ that hangs about them like a scent, like beasts half-tamed. Even now, he seems like a wild thing, lingering in the trees as though he might join them at the fire for a last swallow of wine or ride with the wild hunt of the twilit court.

"West. No place you would know." He edges nearer, circling around sideways, still looking her over. The moonlight turns his hair a strange silvered grey, makes his eyes dark. "You've a brother, don't you?"

That…is an odd question, and if she hadn't known that he wasn't from the Five Kingdoms before, she certainly would now. Everyone knows who her brother is. "Yes."

Something flickers across his expression, too swift for her to read it in the dark. "What is he like?"

"Madoc is himself," she replies with a faint smile. She is surprised by how much she's missed him these past weeks she's spent in Gawant with Princess Elena, and though she imagines he'll be back to putting pebbles in her slippers, she'll be happy to see him for at least a few hours. Casting a curious eye over Arthur, she sees that strange look about him again. "Why do you ask? Do you not have siblings?"

He shakes his head once. "I was raised by my uncle. It was only us."

Perhaps that's why he is so rude. Men shouldn't be left unattended for too great a time; it does unfortunate things to them. Though perhaps it is more than that. She doesn't think he is used to being around people. Wherever he is from, it must be quite an isolated place.

Somewhere in the distant darkness, wolves give voice to their silvery, haunting songs, and Morgana sighs. "I've always loved hearing them sing."

Arthur cocks his head towards the sound, and when it fades, he raises his hands to his mouth and howls in reply, the sound uncannily true.

"Don't do that, you'll bring them here," she gasps as the howls begin again.

Arthur lowers his hands, a sparkle of rare amusement in his gaze. "No. There's only three, and they've made a kill. They won't leave fresh meat to sniff us out."

"You can tell from that alone?" she asks, somewhat awed.

"Aye."

"Oh. Well, then." Morgana runs her tongue over the cut on her lip; the swelling went down after she held a clump of snow to it for a time, but the split still stings like seven hells. At least he hadn't broken any of her teeth, or her nose. Gods only knew what Father would have to say about _that_. No doubt he'd call her a damn fool for getting involved at all. She places her hand on the hilt of her light sword. She had kept it on her saddle for the journey, but it makes her feel safer now to have it close. "Why are you coming to Camelot?" she asks at last, gazing at him. There is something familiar about him, though she cannot say what. He is like a bit of children's doggerel, once known by heart and now scarce remembered.

His expression shutters in an instant, a shadow passing swiftly over him. "It is a matter of destiny," he murmurs, and his voice goes so soft she can scarce hear him add, "and family."

"Have you kin in Camelot then? Perhaps a member of the court?" she wonders. Merlin had said they possessed a fair bit of wealth, and their horses are certainly fine beasts. They might look like a pack of vagabonds at the moment, but that might simply be practicality on their part, choosing not to wear their finery for winter travel. She wouldn't have dressed as she had if appearance hadn't been important, a visit between royals.

Arthur is silent for a long time. She isn't used to being ignored by anyone, yet she doesn't press him, wondering if he'll bolt should she speak to him too harshly. It doesn't seem entirely impossible.

"My lady?" Guinevere calls from the fire. "Supper is ready."

"Coming, Gwen," she replies, then looks back to Arthur. He's turned more towards her now, and the faint light of the fire plays over the bones of his face, and again, he strikes her as so familiar it is uncanny. If only she could understand. "If you need assistance establishing yourself in Camelot, we can help you. You have saved my life and the life of my knights. Father will surely see you rewarded," she offers.

His eyes darken. "No, I think not."

Morgana turns to face him for a moment, looking him over. "Will you at least come dine with us, wolf-singer?" she asks.

Arthur's gaze flickers towards the camp; his nose twitches. "Mm. Ptarmigan."

For some reason, it reminds her of Madoc, and she finds herself grinning as they return to the others. She likes him, odd though he is.


	12. A City of Stone

A city of stone.

That is what Balinor had called Camelot, a city made of stone and walled in. And it is indeed.

Dagda Mor, it is _vast. _

Bigger than any steading Arthur had seen on the island, bigger than anything he'd ever seen. He cannot compare it to Mynydd Tân, for they are no more alike than Rhyone and the scampering lizards which scuttle underfoot. It almost resembles a mountain though, an unnatural mountain of white stone stacked by men's hands.

"Home," Princess Morgana says, sounding truly gleeful, and the other knights all bear small smiles as well, even the short and short-tempered Sir Erec.

Arthur feels ill.

A warm, rough hand slides into his, and he cuts a glance sideways to see Merlin close beside him, looking perhaps a shade paler than is wont. He curls his fingers tightly around Merlin's.

"When we reach the city, I should like all three of you to accompany me to the citadel," Morgana says, and though her words sound casual, there is an air of command about her that says it isn't entirely a suggestion. "The King will want to hear about the attack on the road, and he'll see you rewarded."

She goes on talking, something about finding a respectable boardinghouse and who to speak to about getting established in the city, but he isn't listening. The King. He's to stand before the King. Arthur's hand tightens around Merlin's, digging his nails into the scratchy-soft fabric of his fingerless gloves. Merlin squeezes his hand in return.

As they make for the city, the going easier due to the clearer roads, Arthur can feel his heart beating faster in his chest, a taste of bile in the back of his mouth, and he pulls at his bowstring nervously. His other hand moves down to grasp the hilt of Carnwennan on his belt, breathing slowly. Suddenly he wants nothing more than to be home with Uncle Tristan, so much so it makes his chest ache. Perhaps he wouldn't be in their cave anymore, without Arthur there with him. Maybe he'll have gone to one of the steadings, or to Mynydd Tân.

Arthur tries to hold onto thoughts of safety and home as the city walls loom over them, huge and terrible. He reaches out blindly until he finds Merlin's hand again, gripping it tightly in his.

There are guards at the city gates, huddled close around burning braziers to keep warm, grumbling in the cold, but they all snap upright as Sir Kay calls in his powerful voice, "Make way for the princess!"

Morgana lowers her hood so they can see her as they ride in, offering polite smiles and small nods to the guards. They stand a little taller under her gaze, Arthur notices.

They're inside the city of Camelot.

"Easy," Merlin whispers, pressed in tight to his side; still, Arthur can hear the thread of nervousness in his voice. "I'm here."

He leans in closer, drawing on the familiar scent of Merlin's skin—fresh-chipped granite and juniper—to help ground him. It isn't only his uncle he misses now. All his life, he had been grounded by the earth, surrounded by the wilderness; even Mynydd Tân, for all it had been made of stone, had its own living presence. Here, there is nothing green, nothing growing but for the stubborn straggles of weeds in the corners, and gods' mercy, there are so many _people._ Even in the midst of a Druid steading on market days, there hadn't been so many people.

Many of them stop to watch Morgana ride past, watching her and the knights with a mix of awe and respect and adoration. And then their gazes turn down to Arthur, to Merlin, to Lancelot, turning curious and wondering. A part of him wants to bare his teeth at them. He wonders how many of them have stood by and watched their king murder innocent people. How many have cheered for the sight of blood?

The castle stands like a white mountain against the hard grey sky. The sound of hooves clattering off the cobblestones makes his head ache.

"Sir Kay, as soon as you speak to my father, I want you to arrange for a patrol to go to the road and bring back the dead, see if you cannot find anything that might identify our assailants," Morgana says as she dismounts, handing off the reins of the horse to the plump young man who came forward.

"Yes, your highness."

She turns towards the three of them, standing close to one another in the foreign environment of the citadel. "Your horses will be looked after, and I'll see them returned to you—"

"Morgana."

All heads turn towards the source of the voice, clear and strong, Arthur's as well.

A woman descends the stairs, clad in a gown of deep green brocade patterned with bronze vines, a drape of rich fur around her shoulders. She's fair, delicate as the petals of an orchid, her skin almost translucent, with the same fine-boned beauty Morgana has. Her hair is the colour of polished copper, piled atop her head in some complicated twist and set with a slender coronet of gold.

"Mother." Morgana steps forward to meet the woman, embracing her.

"It is good to see you home—what has happened to your _face?_ Where are your horses, the rest of your escort?" the Queen asks, looking past her daughter towards their ragged little party, settling on Arthur, Merlin, and Lancelot with suspicion. Her eyes have that same silvery-grey cast to them, though hers are more blue than green.

Taking her mother's hands, Morgana explains what had befallen her on the road to Camelot, explaining their presence with the royal party. Arthur thinks she plays it out to be far more heroic than it had been. She also attributes her injury on one of the attackers pulling her from her horse, and as she speaks, the Queen's gaze markedly softens, though she doesn't relax entirely.

"You saved my daughter's life," she says, taking a step closer to them. "You have my thanks, all three of you, and the thanks of this kingdom as well. I will ensure that you are all rewarded."

Merlin speaks up beside him, executing a small bow. "Well met, your majesty, but it is unnecessary, truly," he says in a perfectly polite voice; Arthur couldn't have spoken if he tried, still gazing at the queen.

"No, this merits something special." She sweeps her gaze over them, in equal turn curious and appraising. "You'll dine with us tonight." It isn't a question.

Morgana seems perfectly delighted by the prospect. "Where is Father? Will he join us?"

"He's attending to other matters with Prince Urien."

Before Morgana can say anything else, a lump of snow bursts against her back in a shower, making her yelp and whirl around, eyes flashing. On the other side of the courtyard, a young boy laughs gleefully, standing up on the base of a statue.

"Madoc, we have guests," Queen Vivienne admonishes.

"I was only saying hello, Mother. I've missed my dear sister so very much."

Arthur's throat tightens as though an unseen hand has closed around it, and he gropes behind him with one hand until he catches hold of Merlin's sleeve as the boy leaps down from the statue and strolls over to them. He takes after his mother, though his hair is almost as dark as Morgana's, until the sun falls on it and brings out the auburn. His eyes are the same blue-grey, with a mark of brown in the right one, and his gaze is unwontedly solemn as he looks up at them, moving from Lancelot, then to Merlin, and lastly to Arthur. "You saved Morgana?" he asks.

"Aye, we…we helped," Arthur replies, forcing the words out past the tightness in his throat. Madoc nods once, then gives a small, neat bow.

"Then you have the thanks of House Pendragon," he says in a formal tone, but when he straightens again, there's a bright glimmer of curiosity in his gaze, a boyish eagerness. "Will you dine with us?"

"We will," Arthur agrees, the words leaping from him unbidden.

"Wonderful. It's settled, then." Queen Vivienne turns and claps her hands together once, sharply; the sound seems louder than it ought to be in the courtyard. Within a moment, two people come down the steps, standing with hands clasped and heads bowed attentively. Servants, he realises. "These young men are to be our guests tonight. Have them seen to."

With that, they are escorted into the citadel.

Madoc follows after them, rattling off questions as the servants usher them down the corridors, up a flight of stairs, and into a chamber. To Arthur's eyes, the room is a small, cramped space, and he can feel the _weight_ of the citadel all around him as though it made the air itself heavier. The moment the door is closed, he feels confined, chest tightening up. Arthur puts out a hand against the wall, hoping to draw some comfort from the feel of stone, but it does no good. This is stone shaped by man, not nature.

"Are you well?" Madoc has moved to stand beside him, eyeing him up with frank curiosity.

"Aye," Arthur says between shallow breaths. "'Tis my first time indoors."

His two-coloured eyes widen. _"Ever?" _

"Aye." Madoc glances about the chamber, then goes to the windows, standing on his toes to pull them open. The cold air swirls in. The servants shiver and throw displeased glances at the boy, but Arthur immediately moves closer to the window, drawing in deep gulps of fresh air. "Is that better?" Madoc asks hopefully.

He glances down at the lad, feeling himself smile despite the ache in his heart. "Aye, it is. Thank you." He leans against the wall and wills himself to calm.

The servants are filling a small tub with steaming water, laying out scrub brushes and a lump of soap and dry cloths. Lancelot has a dazed look about him, like one recently struck upside the head with a heavy object. Merlin doesn't look quite so panicked as Arthur feels—perhaps living in Mynydd Tân has prepared him more for this—but he lingers close to the other window, and he's watching Arthur and Madoc with a softness in his gaze.

"I like that. Where did you get it?" Madoc asks, pointing to Arthur's belt.

Arthur places a hand on Carnwennan's hilt, rubbing his thumb over the dragon-head triskelion on its pommel. "It was a gift," he replies softly. "An heirloom."

"Your belt is fine, too. But _what_ is_ that?" _

He follows the boy's gaze and gives a bemused frown. "My bow?"

Madoc holds out a hand, and Arthur unslings it from his shoulder, handing it to him. The boy runs a hand along the resilient yew, then gives the string a testing pull, though he cannot hope to draw it yet, as he's not the strength nor the arm length for it. "It's very…rustic," he says at last.

"It is a perfectly good bow." Arthur takes it back from him and strings it over his shoulder again. "My uncle made it for me."

"Oh. Well, you can't have it when you come to supper. Mother doesn't even let Father bring his sword to the table."

Distantly, a voice calls Madoc's name.

The boy gives a great put-upon sigh. "That is my tutor. I'll see you at dinner," he says, already moving towards the door. In the doorway, he pauses and turns back to look at Arthur with that bright curiosity again. "Will you tell me about where you lived later?"

"Aye, if you'd like."

The lad grins winningly and ducks out of the chamber, drawing the door closed again.

Arthur tilts his head back against the wall and sighs softly. Despite himself, he feels a faint smile coming to his face, the tightness in his chest easing just a little further.

He has a brother. He has a sister.

He likes them quite a lot.

* * *

They find a boardinghouse in the city that night, a fine place in one of the wealthier parts of the city. They could've stayed in the citadel, been allowed one of the empty servants' rooms, but the sight of the long, windowless hall with its small rooms and smaller beds made Arthur feel caught in the invisible snare again. The boardinghouse boasts of a small leisure garden that alleviates the worst of his panic.

Arthur opens the windows as far as they will go, drawing in the crisp air and exhaling a silvery plume of vapor. It smells like snow. He'll have to close them again later, but for now, he can breathe.

"What did you think of the royal family, such as you've seen?" Merlin asks, sitting on the edge of Arthur's bed and giving an experimental little bounce.

"I…I like them. Such as I've seen," he replies slowly, putting his back to the window and letting the cold air wash down his spine.

"I was particularly fond of the stuffed goose myself."

Arthur scrapes a handful of snow from the sill outside and flings it at him, making Merlin squeak in dismay. "You put the question to me, take it serious."

"Alright, alright." He leans back on his hands, the spark of mirth fading, and when he speaks again, his tone is solemn. "What do you suppose our destiny will ask of us here?"

"I don't know." Arthur crosses the room and sits down beside him. "They're more your gods than mine. Why don't you ask them?"

Merlin tweaks his ear. "Heretic," he scolds, but there's no spark to it. "I don't know what I imagined them to be, but…"

"Not this."

"Aye. Not this."

Though it seemed to him quite a fine affair, Merlin had informed him that it had only been a small, modest dinner. Aside from the three of them, the only others in attendance were the Queen, Morgana, and Madoc. The King was otherwise occupied, apparently, along with Prince Urien. He's grateful for that, at least. And the royal family had been simply that—a family. Madoc had chattered on happily about the knights and the squires and the upcoming Yule feast; Morgana had recounted her visit with Princess Elena of Gawant to her mother. Apparently, the other princess is dreadfully clumsy and a bit ill-mannered, but a kind enough soul. All in all, he'd done little speaking, but it suited him fine. He'd enjoyed listening.

"It is strange to think, isn't it?" Merlin murmurs softly. "To think that they are no different from us, and yet…." He doesn't continue, but Arthur understands.

And yet, if the truth of Merlin and Arthur was known, then their pyre would soon be melting the snow in the courtyard that faintly smells of blood and human fear, even under the snow. The knowledge makes his stomach knot up with an uneasy, vague guilt, feeling as though he's betraying the people of the island, Uncle Tristan, his mother by liking his foreign kin. It's a complex tangle of emotion he doesn't much enjoy.

"We can go to the market tomorrow," Merlin suggests. It's a deliberate change in subject, and Arthur knows his friend has seen his thoughts on his face. "Find ourselves new attire, maybe see if there's aught we can learn from gossipmongers." He lifts a hand and lightly brushes his fingertips through Arthur's hair, smoothing it back from his brow.

Arthur tilts his head into the light touch with a sigh. The pit of his belly flutters with warmth but little else. He's too overwrought to think of anything more now, homesick and weary, still uneasy at being enclosed at all hours by manmade walls. This damned destiny of theirs is proving to be quite the tiresome task. "Do you want me to comb your hair out?" he asks softly, eyes still closed.

"If you like."

"I would."

Merlin withdraws his hand and slides down to sit on the floor in front of him, and Arthur reaches over to pick up his antler comb, setting it on his thigh as he starts unbraiding Merlin's hair. It is becoming something of a ritual for them, this little act. Merlin leans back into him happily; his shoulders fit rather nicely between Arthur's knees. Gently, he pulls the comb through the small tangles and uses his fingers for the rest, letting the loose ringlets curl around his fingertips. Even after he smooths out the last of the knots, Merlin doesn't move, and Arthur doesn't stop.

"Merlin?" he murmurs.

"Hm?"

He twists his fingers around Merlin's hair, bowing forward slightly to inhale the smell his granite-and-juniper scent, tinged with the lavender from the bath they'd been subjected to before being allowed to dine with the Pendragons. "I…I'm glad you're here."

Merlin tilts his head back, pressing the back of his head against Arthur's hand; he still looks strange without his tattoos. "As am I." He sits forward and gets to his feet. "Thank you. Goodnight."

"Goodnight." Arthur watches him go, the easy grace of his stride, and once the door clicks shut, he lets out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes for a moment. Rising from the bed, he goes back to the window, leaning his shoulder against the wall. The cold air feels good on his flushed skin, and he can hear the faint sounds of music from the tavern. He can recognise the song. How strange it is to think that they are all so very different, and yet they have the same drinking songs.

He takes a step back and reaches out to pull the windows closed, though he keeps them just slightly open.

Arthur smells orchids.

The nape of his neck prickles; he goes to the door and pulls it open. On the other side, Queen Vivienne of Camelot stands in the corridor.

"Your majesty," he says, taking a step backwards and giving a small bow, though he doesn't take his gaze from her. Never take eyes off an opponent. He isn't certain that she is an opponent at all yet, but he's garnered enough to know it is not every day that a queen would come to visit a boardinghouse in the middle of the night.

She steps into the room and closes the door behind her. With the windows open behind him, it does help to keep his unease down, but he notices that she keeps herself between him and the door. She has taken off her jewels and silks, wearing a simple gown of green-dyed combed wool with a dark cloak over it, the hood raised over her bright hair. "Were you watching through the keyhole?" she asks lightly, head tilted, but he can sense the testing in it.

"That is a fine perfume you wear, your majesty."

She hums thoughtfully, reaching up to touch the hollow of her throat. "I see." She takes a step further into his room, lowering her hood and clasping her hands together before her. "It is you and I now, child. No court, no crown." Those grey eyes fix on him, cold and sharp as fine-tempered steel. "Tell me. Who are you?"


	13. Family Matters

"Your majesty?"

The boy doesn't lie well. Vivienne could see it from the moment she met him, and the change in scenery doesn't alter that fact. She steps forward into the small room, and he takes a step back to match her, his eyes following her, those damned _eyes_.

She moves towards the small table which holds his belongings, such as they are, and she takes out the one in particular that had caught her gaze in the courtyard, holding it gently in her hands. "This sword belongs to Tristan du Bois, an heirloom of his house. I've seen it with my own eyes, and I have seen no other like it," she says. The cross guard is fashioned in the likeness of a phoenix with wings outstretched, the work somewhat crude considering its age but still beautiful, a cabochon sapphire set in the pommel. Grasping the scabbard in one hand and the hilt in the other, she eases the blade out a few inches, exposing the cold blue steel underneath. Tristan had always taken special care with his weapons. She can still remember how proud he'd been when his father had passed it down to him, how he'd worn it every day afterwards. "It vanished with him, six-and-ten years ago." When Ygraine had died with her son, when he had abdicated to his brother and vanished. She slides the blade home with a soft click, keeping it in hand. "How did you come to possess it?"

The boy doesn't speak for a long moment, though he doesn't take his gaze from her, doesn't fidget or squirm as one is wont to do before lying. "He gave it to me before I came here," he says at last.

"Tristan," Vivienne murmurs, and he nods once. She lets out a low sigh, eyes drifting shut for a moment before she gazes at him once more. "He lives, then. Are you his?" The boy has the look of him, certainly.

"He raised me. My name is Arthur du Bois."

The name makes her throat tighten up for remembrance. Of course, Tristan would give the child that name. How could he not? He'd always loved Ygraine so very much, and this boy could well be her son, as much as he resembles her. "Why are you here, Arthur du Bois? Why has he sent you here now, after so many years?"

"I chose to go. He'd rather I stayed with him."

"And your friends?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Merlin is my first and oldest friend. He wouldn't hear of my going alone," he replies softly. "Lancelot, we met on the road here. I'm still not certain he believes all we've told him."

Vivienne smiles at that. She wouldn't have believed it herself, had she not proof plain before her. She can only imagine what that poor boy is feeling now. Turning, she sets the longsword back on the table, wondering what Tristan has been doing for the past six-and-ten years, where on earth he even is now. "So, what is it you mean to do here, child? Establish yourself in the court, settle the matter of inheritance in Snowgate?"

His eyes widen slightly in unfeigned alarm, and he gives his head a rapid shake. "No, no. I've no such ambition," he insists; she doesn't believe it to be a lie. She can't imagine him being in charge of a household. He is quiet for a moment, sinking down to sit on the edge of the bed and turning his gaze towards the window. Small flakes of snow are beginning to drift down, slow and lazy. "To be true…I don't know. I don't know what to do. I feel as though I'm _needed_ here somehow, that I've a purpose, but…" He shrugs one shoulder, head down. "I don't know what it is. I don't know what is wanted of me."

He sounds so young, lost and heartsick, and on impulse, Vivienne reaches out to stroke his hair as she would with her own children. He shies under her touch like a nervous animal, then stills, shoulders slumping with a deep sigh. His hair is warm and soft, fine under her fingertips; with eyes closed, one might mistake him for a young Tristan. "There is a townhouse here in the city which belongs to your family. I imagine Lord Agravaine will not take it amiss if you were to live there," she says softly. The younger du Bois brother hasn't set foot in Camelot since Ygraine's death, and she does not think he ever will again. His family does not fare well within the city walls. "I'll see that you are looked after, beginning with more suitable attire. Even if you do not wish to lay claim to your inheritance in Snowgate, perhaps you will still find something to enjoy the court."

"I…thank you, your majesty, but it isn't needful, truly…"

"Courtier or not, child, you are a scion of one of the Great Houses of Camelot. You cannot wander the city in your patched forest greens," she cuts him off gently. His attire, such as it is, has been likely been mended half a hundred times over and washed so often it is not so much green as an indeterminate colour vaguely resembling it. The only thing of his that looks at all new is his belt, though even that has been worn shiny with use.

"Merlin and Lancelot."

She sighs a little at the stubborn note in his voice, the mulish set of his jaw. "Your friends have no place in the court," she tells him gently. The boy Merlin has decent manners and a way about him that suggests he's been raised well, but the other one…as she understands it, he had been born a goatherd.

"Neither do I."

Vivienne gazes down at him for a long moment, thoughtful; he gazes right back up at her through dark gold lashes, surprisingly defiant. Despite herself, she admires him for it. "Very well. You may take them with you," she relents, and the corner of his mouth twitches up. "I only want you to have a care. I do not know how Tristan has raised you, but I can imagine it has little to do with the intricacies and intrigues of court and crown."

"Aye, your majesty, you'd be right in that."

She arches a brow at him. "Lesson the first. Do not say _aye._ It is considered vulgar and common."

The boy arches a brow, then straightens up and arranges himself into surprisingly tidy posture, hands folded neatly in his lap. Clearing his throat, he pitches his voice to imitate Morgana's passably well, "Yes, your majesty."

She laughs aloud at that, reaching out to tweak his hair. "Lesson the second, child. Do not _ever_ let my daughter hear you do that, or you will regret ever setting foot in this kingdom."

He nods sagely. "I can believe that."

Vivienne glances towards the window once more. The snow is coming down thicker now; she needs to return to the castle soon. Not that Uther will notice. He was still in his solar when she had left, and she did not think he will have left it yet. He may sleep there if he wishes. "I'll make arrangements for you to be set up in the townhouse and send a page along sometime tomorrow to bring you there," she says, gathering her cloak about her. As she raises her hood, settling it over her hair, she gives him another curious look. "Madoc was quite enthused by your presence at supper the other night. However, he did tell me something most interesting. That being in the castle was your first time to ever be indoors. Is that so?"

"'Tis so, your majesty."

"Pray forgive my asking, then, but…where did you…?"

Arthur grins at her, slow and surprisingly mischievous. "In a cave."

She blinks. "A cave."

"Aye," he drawls back, grinning. "What do you think the court will think of that?"

Vivienne has long since broken the habit of doing something so obvious as pinching the bridge of her nose or rubbing a hand over her face, but the idea of Tristan du Bois living in a cave makes her close her eyes for a moment, fingertips pressed to her mouth. "Oh, child…. Just wait until they get wind of _you."_


	14. Silk Ribbon

"I'm not wearing that."

"Arthur." Merlin sounds amused and exasperated in turn.

"I'll look a damned peacock!" Lancelot listens to the pair bicker in the adjoining room with only half an ear, sunk into the bath up to his chin. And gods have mercy, what a glorious thing the bath is! The tub is deep and wide, a great solid thing. He cannot imagine how many buckets of water it takes to fill it, nor how much wood to heat the water, but at the moment, he doesn't care. This is a horizon away from a quick dunk in the stream or a whore's bath with a bucket. He feels like he might well soak in here for the rest of the day. Maybe his life.

He is also beginning to think that Arthur might actually be the lost prince because he cannot think of any other way for a pair of magical foreigners to arrive in Camelot and within a sennight end up in a townhouse large enough to hold three of the cottages he'd grown up in. Apparently, Arthur had a conversation with the queen. He still can't believe that, either, but then again, _everything_ about Merlin and Arthur is fairly bizarre.

A hand atop his head gives him a quick shove under the water. Lancelot sputters and coughs as he surfaces, swiping water out of his eyes. "Seven hells!" he coughs.

Merlin laughs as he perches on the edges of the tub. "Do you intend to live in here now? Are you half selkie?"

"Maybe," he retorts, then rakes his gaze over Merlin. He's out of his mottled forest colours, into a tunic of white cambric and a silken crimson coat with a high collar, fastened up the front and embroidered with exotic birds and flowers. "Where did you get that?"

"It's mine, I brought it with me," Merlin answers, smoothing a hand down the front of his silk coat.

"I take it Arthur isn't quite so enthused to receive new clothes?" The other boy snorts.

"Ah, no. I'll convince him, though."

Lancelot sinks back down into the bathwater, tilting his head back to soak his hair. "Is there soap over there?" he asks, and Merlin hands him a square of cloth and a small ball of soap that smells like lavender. He works up a lather and sets to scrubbing himself clean. "So, how exactly did we end up here? Arthur still hasn't told me," he says, tilting his head back to rinse the lather out of his hair, squinting up at Merlin, who's risen to idly pace around the antechamber.

"Ah, well…I think he ought to tell you."

He turns to stare at the other boy. "I'm not going to like what he says, am I?"

Merlin cocks his head and gives him a perfectly innocent smile as he strolls back out of the antechamber. "I don't know what you mean."

Oh, gods.

Once he's out of the bath, however, he finds that his clothes seem to have taken leave without his permission, but there's a thick robe of vivid blue satin left for him instead, worked with silver in the pattern of small phoenixes. It must be the crest of the du Bois family, remembering the cross guard of Arthur's longsword.

In the next room, Merlin is sitting in a chair at the table whilst Arthur, inexplicably, has decided to sit _on_ the table despite there being two other chairs. There's a drape of brilliant green silk over one of the chairs, likely the one that Arthur had so vehemently rejected. Merlin, in his embroidered silk coat, almost looks like he belongs here in this fine townhouse belonging to one of the Great Houses; Arthur, remaining stubbornly in his travelling wear, seems more like an intruding woodsprite, albeit a very sullen one. Despite the difference in attire, they still look a matched pair, equal yet opposite.

"Where are my clothes?" he asks, noticing their absence.

"Taken to be laundered, along with mine," Merlin replies, casting a pointed glance up at Arthur that clearly says his clothes should be with them as well, if he would stop being so damnably stubborn. Lancelot is becoming rather adept in reading those looks.

"Right, so, tell me how it is that we went from the boardinghouse to here?" he asks, shuffling over to sit in one of the empty chairs. He isn't entirely certain he even wants the answer at all. These people are unlike anything he's ever seen, and he has the creeping suspicion that he's only just skimmed the surface of their peculiarities. A sorcerer and a long-lost prince come to Camelot…it sounds like the beginning of an awful jest.

Arthur picks at the plate of food on the table. "This townhouse belongs to the du Bois family. As my uncle Agravaine is not here to protest, I have every right to stay here."

Lancelot narrows his eyes at him. "I very much doubt that they allow any wanderers to simple amble in off the street." Not that he's exactly complaining. That bath is worth every bit of coin he's ever earned in his _life._

"They will on instruction from the Queen."

His jaw drops. "When did…?"

"Ereyesterday, at the boardinghouse."

Lancelot grabs at his damp hair with both hands. "And you _told_ her who you are? _Why?"_

Entirely too calm, Arthur pops another grape in his mouth. "I didn't."

He gives very serious thought to taking the sash of the robe and wrapping it around Arthur's throat until he gave a proper answer in more than ten words. "Then what? Did you…? Oh, gods, you _lied_ to the _Queen?" _he exclaims in horror. "Have you taken leave of your wits?"

"Lie?" Arthur tilts his head to the side in a parody of confusion; Merlin rolls his eyes skyward. "I never lied. I answered her honestly, everything she asked. The Queen made her own assumptions."

"Assumptions you didn't correct!"

"Who am I to correct the Queen?"

Lancelot buries his face in his hands and groans for despair. "I'm going to _die, _being friends with the pair of you." Lowering his hands, he stares at them. "Fine. _Fine._ What does she _assume_, then?"

"That Uncle Tristan is my father, that I was born after he fled Camelot."

He narrows his eyes. _"Not_ the lost prince?"

Arthur shakes his head. "The story here is that I died with my mother, not that I was stolen," he answers in a softer voice, shifting to draw one leg up towards his chest, chin on his knee. "I imagine that is the King's doing."

He can understand that. No King would want to admit that his own child had been taken right out of his very castle, not to mention it would give any number of pretenders the chance to make a claim on the throne, threaten Prince Madoc's inheritance. Lancelot wonders what it must feel like, to meet one's family for the first time and find that they've been told he died as an infant, recognised as a distant cousin by marriage only. Small wonder Arthur looks so forlorn. "Well…all right. I suppose that isn't… terrible. Just pray no one else ever finds out the truth. Especially the King."

Arthur's jaw tightens. "Believe me, I would rather not have him know anything about me," he rumbles.

There's a small knock at the door. Merlin rises to answer it.

On the other side of the door, there's a steely-haired servant in dark blue livery, giving a crisp inclination of his head. He opens his mouth to speak, but then he blinks and looks past Merlin to Arthur, remembering who he is to address. "My lord, you have visitors."

Arthur seems in turn amused and discomfited to be addressed as anyone's lord. "Who?"

"The Princess Morgana, with an escort and her maidservant. Do you wish to have them admitted?"

"Aye, let her in," Arthur replies, and Lancelot can see the servant's face twitch. As the man gives another small bow and departs, he picks up another grape and tosses it high, tilting his head back to catch it in his mouth. "I must say, I do get a fair bit of satisfaction out of making him uncomfortable. His eye does that every time I speak to him. Especially if I say 'aye.'"

"Arthur," Merlin sighs, his lips pressed together on a smile and one hand rubbing his brow. Shaking his head, he waves his other hand. "Go and receive your guests, you're master of the house."

Arthur unfolds his legs and gets down from the table, leaving the room.

As he goes, Lancelot casts a glance back at Merlin, who still has a faint smile on his face, and now it is his turn to roll his eyes. These two are something else. May the gods have mercy on the city of Camelot once they're set loose. He can hear voices in the corridor, slightly muffled through the door. Then, to his horror, the door opens once more, admitting Arthur, along with the princess and her maidservant. _"Arthur!"_ Lancelot exclaims, his face burning as he leaps to his feet, clutching the robe tightly around himself and fleeing back to the antechamber.

"What?" Arthur asks, bewildered.

"Forgive me, your highness, my lady," he calls, pressing his brow to the cool wall and quietly wishing for the floor to kindly open up and swallow him.

"No harm done," comes the princess's reply, sounding amused.

Within a moment, a younger servant comes hurrying into the antechamber, face flushed, with an armful of clothes. Lancelot thanks the young man profusely, quickly stripping off the robe and putting his clothes back on, no matter that they're still slightly damp from washing. At least they're clean, and at least he's dressed.

When he steps back out, Morgana and Guinevere are both seated at the table, Sir Leon lounging beside the doorway. Merlin is in the third chair, and Arthur stands behind it with his hands braced on the chairback. "Your highness, my lady," he says, offering a small bow.

"Oh, enough of that. Call me Morgana, please," the princess says with a dismissive flick of her fingers, curiously studying the green silk garment still hung over the back of her chair. "This is beautiful work."

Guinevere gives him a faint smile. "And I am no lady."

"Not from where I sit, my lady," Lancelot replies in return, smiling. "So, to what do we owe the pleasure of such company?"

"Oh, quite a few things." Morgana turns her gaze to Arthur, narrowed in playful malice. "For beginners, you told me you didn't have kin in Camelot," she accuses.

"I said no such thing. You put the question to me, and I did not answer you. Besides, my kin are not here in the city."

She opens her mouth, then closes it again, sitting back in her chair. A slow smile plays at her mouth, flashing white teeth. "Fairly said. You said you were raised by your uncle," she poses next.

Lancelot swallows hard, his mouth dry for nervousness, but Arthur doesn't blink. "I have always called him such. He and my mother were not married," he replies, and Morgana's smile smooths out into an empathetic expression, giving a small nod.

Seven hells. He is beginning to understand what Arthur meant when he said he didn't lie; he still isn't. The trick of it is to allow people to draw their own conclusions, knowing when to be silent. It is a damned dangerous game to play with a princess, let alone a _queen_, but given that Arthur is already standing in a city that executes sorcerers for the crime of breathing, Lancelot doesn't have much faith in his sense of self-preservation. And still, a part of him thrills at it as well. There is certainly something exhilarating in it.

Morgana lets the matter of Arthur's parentage drop, thankfully, but she is far from done with them. She has come to see her 'cousin' properly attired and readied for his debut at court. Not only Arthur, but Merlin and Lancelot as well, since he's apparently convinced the Queen to allow them to keep his company; the solidarity is strangely comforting in its way.

"Guinevere will take your measurements, and I'll see them delivered to our tailors. Mother says not to worry about the cost of it. I think she's happy to have you around. Madoc likes you, and he's far less inclined to be underfoot when he has someone occupying his attention," Morgana chatters on smoothly, rising to her feet and walking over to Arthur. She takes his arm and tugs him over a few steps onto more open floor, and Guinevere comes to take his measurements with a length of marked ribbon, making notes on a bit of foolscap. "Oh, I can already imagine their faces when they see the three of you. You're something novel. Maybe not in _these,"_ she remarks, plucking at the sleeve of Arthur's tunic with raised brows, "but you will be once you've been tidied up."

"They sound shallow folk," Arthur muses, eyeing her.

Morgana stops, then smiles in a self-depreciating way. "Yes, I suppose we can be."

"Hm."

Lancelot has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing as Guinevere continues to go about taking Arthur's measurements, making the other boy squirm, which in turn makes Morgana scold him into holding still. However, his mirth ends quickly once it's his turn.

"I did not think you were a seamstress, my lady," he supposes as she winds the ribbon around his chest, down his arms.

She looks up at him through her lashes, thick and sooty. "No? Why not?"

"Your hands."

She loops the ribbon around his neck. "Very observant. And also correct. My father is a bladesmith on the street of steel. Betimes I work with him in the forge. What art do you pursue, then?" she asks, turning to write on the foolscap.

He hesitates a moment. He's never been ashamed to say that he was born to smallfolk or raised as a goatherd, but his aspiration to become a knight seems a boy's childish fancy in the presence of a true knight. "Swordcraft, my lady," he settles for instead.

"And a fine craft it is. Finished." She takes a step back and winds up the ribbon, making her last notes; he can still smell the lavender in her hair.

"So." Morgana retakes her seat and smooths out her skirts, turning that keen grey-green gaze over each of them in turn. "A goatherd warrior, a foreigner, and a noble raised in a cave," she muses aloud. A slow smile spreads across her face, mercurial delight dancing through her gaze. "This is going to be such wondrous _fun." _

Merlin and Arthur exchange another of their silent looks, slow smiles playing at the corners of their mouths.

Lancelot sighs.


	15. Dogs at the Dinner Table

By the time Yule arrives, all three of them have been outfitted with attire appropriate to wear to the annual ball. Arthur can scarce believe they are permitted to attend at all. He isn't entirely certain he _wants_ to.

"That colour blue looks very fine on you," Morgana remarks as she circles around, taking in the measure of him. Though her duties as princess keep her occupied, there is less to be done in the winter months, and she's come to visit them twice in the past month.

"It itches." Arthur fits his fingers under the collar of the velvet and tugs, hating the way it fits so closely to his throat. Embroidery is worked around it in cloth-of-gold thread; the ends prick at his skin.

She swats his wrist in admonition. "Don't do that." Taking a step back, she clasps her hands together and bounces once on her toes, grinning. "Oh, yes, you'll have all the ladies going mad." White teeth flash in a sharp smirk. "Probably a number of the lords, too."

Arthur stares at her. "Are _you_ mad? What are you on about?"

She stops fussing with the lay of his coat and gives him a peculiar look, one he can't quite make sense of. It is almost as though she cannot quite believe what she is hearing from him. "Arthur, have you never seen yourself?" she asks at last, cocking her head to the side.

"What do you mean?" If she's jesting, he does not find it amusing.

Morgana stares at him for a moment with that same strange expression, then shakes her head. Crossing the chambers, she sorts through the objects that had been left for him by Niall, the steely-haired servant who ran the household, picking out one and returning to him with it. "Here."

The object is a mirror.

He's never seen a true reflection of his own face before. He studies it, curious. He imagines he can see something of Uncle Tristan in the shape of his chin, the line of his brows, but the rest of him is altogether different. He does have very blue eyes, though. "I see myself, no more," he says, handing her back the mirror.

Morgana takes it from him, shaking her head. "If you say."

Arthur narrows his eyes at her. "You are very strange, princess."

She only laughs at that.

He still doesn't know what is so funny.

* * *

The castle is an imposing figure in full day, but it seems even more so now, white stone bleached by the moonlight, a vast expanse of marble and granite, storied tiers and spires. He is becoming more accustomed to the tamed places of the world and being indoors, but this is still far beyond any other man-made structure.

"Dagda Mor," Arthur exhales sharply as they cross the courtyard.

Merlin strokes a hand down his arm. "I'm here," he murmurs; the words lend him a measure of strength.

He casts a glance over at Merlin but looks away just as quickly, face warm despite the cold air. Merlin has been outfitted in bronze brocade covered with subtle yet intricate patterns. Cut and styled to his form, it does well to highlight his peculiar, particular long-limbed grace. Arthur had caught a glimpse of him dressing back in the townhouse, walking past the half-open door of his chamber. Only for a moment, but long enough to see the smooth line of his back before he pulled his linen undershirt on over his head, the shape of bone and muscle visible under fair skin. The image is still a living thing in his mind, and despite his repeated attempts to batter it away, whenever it crawls up to the fore, his entire body flames up like pine pitch.

"How long do we have to stay?" Lancelot asks in an undertone as they approach, a thankful distraction. He's been done up in deep green that suits him well, and with his hair washed and combed into order, he could well pass for a nobleman, if not for the nervousness that hangs about him like a scent.

"A while. It would be rude to leave too soon. There'll be food and wine, don't fret," Merlin replies. He seems the happiest of all of them, but Arthur's hardly surprised by that. Whilst the Ambrosius holds Mynydd Tân, there are other Dragonlords of other families constantly living in the mountain, and as the Wheel of the Year turns, great gatherings held there, open to all. "Do you know how to dance?"

Lancelot swallows hard. When they enter the castle, Arthur's breath comes a little shorter, but he doesn't stumble. Merlin walks close enough beside him for their arms to brush; the granite-and-juniper scent of him is soothing. They proceed down the wide halls. Servants and guards give them curious looks as they pass. Ahead of them, he can see a dozen backs clad in silk and brocade and satin as guests make their way into the Great Hall, and his heart beats a little faster for unease.

Despite the cold, the Great Hall is warm, both for the lamps and the presence of so many people, and upon entering, Arthur catches his breath a moment, forgetting his own discomfort. Everything is so lovely, glowing with warm light that gleams on the polished floor, glitters on the jewels, illuminates the peers of the realm in all their finery.

"There you three are!" a blessedly familiar voice says, and Gwen maneouvers the crowd with expert practice to join them. She is dressed in a gown of soft yellow with a red smock that matches the other servants', her hair twisted up in some intricate fashion with small yellow flowers in it. "Morgana left me over here to make certain you all showed up. Come, my lady is waiting." She flushes slightly when Lancelot offers his arm to her, tucking her hand around his elbow.

Morgana is dressed in a dark wine-coloured gown which leaves her shoulders bare, held up by straps which descend from a golden collar clasped about her throat, matching the belt of matching gold embellishment around her waist. Her hair is held up with gold combs inlaid with garnets. A touch of kohl around her eyes and carmine on her lips highlights the beauty she already holds. "There you are," she says, echoing Guinevere as they're led over to her. "And how fine you all look. A miracle in and of itself, I should say."

"Rightly so," Merlin agrees, casting a glance at Arthur, who glares in return.

She gives a light laugh, reaching out to touch a fingertip under his chin. "Oh, don't scowl so, you'll get wrinkles."

A hand tugs his sleeve, and he looks down to see Madoc beside him, grinning. "I wasn't certain you would be here," the boy says happily, almost bouncing on his toes. He is dressed in a deep red to match his sister. His two-coloured eyes slide over Arthur from head to toe, and he tilts his head to the side, wrinkling his nose. "Though I must say, you look very odd dressed like this."

"It itches," Arthur says flatly. Even saying it makes him want to yank at his collar.

Morgana rolls her eyes skyward, but Madoc gives her a smile of vindicated glee, "See, I _told_ you so!"

"Oh, hush. Go bother Mother, why don't you?"

He sticks his tongue out at her, then looks up at Arthur again. "It's the gold threads," he informs. "I still don't know why they would put the rough part on the inside and the smooth part on the outside."

"Because it looks better that way," Morgana replies, exasperated. "Don't you think you'd look silly, walking around with loose thread-ends hanging out all over?"

"I'd rather look silly than itch."

She makes an exasperated noise and swats at him. "Would you go _away?" _

Madoc gives her a mutinous glare. "And do_ what?_ There's no one else to talk to," he retorts, but there's a note of pleading in his voice at the last.

Arthur casts a glance around the Great Hall. A few people are giving them curious looks, murmuring in voices too soft to carry. There are no other children in attendance that he can see. Madoc is plainly the youngest person at the feast; they are the only other people anywhere near to his age. He wonders why the boy's even here at all, but then realises it is probably something to do with politics and appearances and all that other nonsense. And he cannot imagine that any of these silken nobles will want to speak to a boy probably younger than their own children, prince of the blood or not, or have much to speak about anyways. He doesn't want to speak to any of them, either. "I was promised there would be food and wine," he says, addressing Madoc. "Or should I find my bow and hunt one of these gilded peacocks?"

The boy gives him a relieved grin. "We don't eat until Mother and Father say so, but there's servants about with wine." He plucks Arthur's sleeve, leading him back out into the crowds. So many people so near makes his skin itch for discomfort, sweat prickling between his shoulder blades; the moment he catches one of the servants, he takes one of the goblets and hurries back towards the edges of the hall where only the other guards and servants lingered.

Madoc comes up next to him. "I'm sorry," he apologises in a grave voice. "I forget you aren't used to being so near many people. There's a balcony just over there. The doors are closed, but would you like to go stand by them?"

"Aye, I would."

The double doors which lead out to the balcony are shut fast against the cold, but even standing near them, he can smell the snow outside through the narrow spaces, cold air threading through. Arthur leans his back against them gratefully, sipping at the wine. The taste is strange but not unpleasant, sweet and crisp. "Are both of your parents attending tonight?" he asks, gripping the cup tighter.

"Yes. Mother's natality is four days after the Longest Night, but she doesn't like there to be so much excess during winter, so Father treats this like her natality." The boy leans his back against the other balcony door, making a little face. "He's probably talking to Prince Foxface somewhere," he adds in a grumbling undertone.

"Prince _who?" _Arthur exclaims.

Madoc shifts his weight, looking faintly abashed but not at all sorry for it. "Prince Urien. Morgana's supposed to marry him so Camelot will have an alliance with Rheged."

He thinks about his map of Alba, which he'd taken to studying in order to familiarise himself with these lands to ensure he doesn't make a complete fool of himself. Rheged is a kingdom to the north, with the so-called "Perilous Lands" lying between them and Camelot. He wonders why it is a kingdom half the size of Camelot is so important as an ally. "When is she supposed to marry him?" he asks instead. Morgana is younger than he is. Thinking of the line of Merlin's back alone makes him feel all feverish; anything else is so far beyond his fathoming he might well try to touch the bottom of the sea.

"Not for another year. Mother wants it to be two, but I don't think it will."

Arthur casts a glance down at him. "You aren't much fond of him, are you?" The question hardly bears asking, but it amuses him nonetheless to see the boy wrinkle his nose like he's caught an unpleasant scent. "Why?" Another servant drifts past, bearing a full tray of cups from the kitchens, and he moves forward to take one, setting the empty one back down.

Madoc shrugs one shoulder. "I don't know, but I'm not. He's always polite and decorous and everything else, but…I don't know."

Amused, Arthur hands him the cup. "Here. This will help." It certainly makes thinking about Merlin easier, the smooth line of his back, the silken feel of his hair. A shiver plays over his skin despite the prickling heat in his belly.

Madoc stares at the cup as though he's just been handed a newly-hatched wyvern pip. "Mother says I'm not supposed to have unwatered wine," he says, aghast.

"I'll not tell her."

The boy grins and sips at it happily. He wrinkles his nose a little at the taste, but he doesn't complain, either.

Arthur gazes across the hall, picking out Merlin amidst the rest. He's speaking with Morgana, her hand tucked around his arm; for some reason, the sight makes his stomach prickle all over again, though not near as pleasantly. She says something to him that makes him go very still just as a couple approaches them. Arthur recognises the Queen in a gown of blue silk that matches her eyes, a coronet inlaid with sapphires set on her up-coiled hair. Which can only mean the man whose arm she's holding is the King.

A tug at his sleeve startles him, looking down at Madoc. "There's Mother and Father," the boy tells him, having caught sight of the others as well. "Come on, I know Mother wants to see you again."

Arthur opens his mouth, but words escape him, his throat abruptly dry all over again. What would he even say? His heart throws itself against his ribcage in a panic as Madoc takes his hand and tugs, leading him along. Suddenly, this seems like the worst idea he's ever had, second only to coming to Alba at all. What will he even say? As they approach, Merlin's gaze finds his, and he can see that same heart-racing panic in his friend's face, though he does well to hide it.

"Madoc, there you are." Queen Vivienne reaches out to smooth a hand over her son's hair, then turns a welcoming smile on Arthur. "And you look very fine yourself. I was right in choosing that colour for you. Brings out your eyes." She smiles, then pats her husband's arm. "Uther, this is the young man I have been telling you about. Arthur du Bois, Tristan's son."

"Is that so?" the King muses, turning to look at him. He is a tall, well-built man of middling years, the hair above his circlet steely-grey. He wears a dark brown tunic, a cloak of rich blue velvet draped around his shoulders to match his wife. There is a long-healed scar on his brow above pale green eyes marked with brown in the left.

A man. Only a man. And yet….

"…resemble Tristan," the King says, his words fading in as though from some great distance, and Arthur blinks, remembering to breathe. "Where is he living now, hm?"

"West," he murmurs. "No place you would know of."

"I see." The King gives a thoughtful hum in his throat, his gaze wandering over Arthur again, a small crease between his brows. "Tristan always was…impulsive."

Despite himself, the words almost make Arthur laugh. Impulsive? His stubborn, taciturn, infernally close-mouthed uncle Tristan? "I have never known him to be such," he answers, the words falling from him unbidden.

"Ah, well, parenthood can change anyone," Queen Vivienne remarks, casting a fond glance towards her own children, then lightly pats her husband's arm. Musicians begin to play. "Come along."

Everyone watches the King and Queen, waiting for their cue to take to the dance floor. The King bows to his wife and extends his arm to her, escorting her out onto the open floor.

They dance very well together.

Arthur feels like he might be ill.

The smell of juniper tickles his nose, and Merlin's hand finds his, squeezing so hard it makes his fingers ache, blunt nails biting into his palm.

He's not sure how many moments they stand there, holding onto one another to keep from falling apart all over again. The music, sweet and fluting, sounds as though he's hearing it from underwater. Other couples join them in the dance, and a distant part of his mind can't help but compare them to the way stars and planets move around one another, all at once, stately and graceful, never colliding.

"Are you well?" Lancelot's voice is low and concerned, a hand brushing his back.

"Fine." Merlin sounds strained but well enough to pass for calm, and his hand eases its grip on Arthur's. A tray-bearing servant passes, and he takes two glasses from the tray. Arthur thinks he means to offer one to him, but Merlin drinks them both down on his own, one directly after the other. Thus fortified, he exhales a sharp breath and squares up his shoulders. "I'm fine."

Arthur swallows past the taste of bile in his mouth, trying to keep his own wine from coming back up when a new voice cuts in, smooth and cultured. "Would you care to dance, my lady?"

He tears his gaze from the royals to see the young man who had spoken, tall and lean, with tawny hair and up-tilted golden-brown eyes.

Morgana smiles at him in welcome, taking his arm. "I would, my lord."

As the young man leads her out, Arthur glances over to see Madoc scowling at the pair, and he asks in a low voice, "Prince Foxface, I take it?"

"That's him."

The epithet is fitting. The sharp, angular bones of the young man's face do indeed put Arthur in mind of a fox, and the familiar pettiness of siblings helps put him back to rights again. He thinks suddenly of Mordred and his unchildlike solemnity masking cunning flashes of mischief and unexpected levity, and he misses the island so much it makes his chest ache. Still, looking down at Madoc, this half-brother he has only just met and never expected to have, he feels some of that ache ease away. "Well, I haven't the slightest idea how to dance, so why don't we get ourselves another glass of wine and you tell me about him," he offers, and Madoc grins.

By the time the King proclaims it time to dine, Madoc is leaning warmly into Arthur's side, drowsy-eyed and slightly flushed, though he'd only had another half-cup of wine. Arthur has learned more about the nobility of Camelot than he has in the past two months, though most of his information has to do with how many children of playmate-age they have, whether or not they treat Madoc like a toddler, and if they are at all capable of having a decent conversation about tourneys.

Taken altogether, the royal family makes a pretty picture, the austere greying king and the queen in the full summer of her beauty flanked by their spirited maiden princess and their bright young prince, with the addition of the fox-faced Prince Urien sitting beside his betrothed.

And yet….

Arthur wonders if his clever stepmother knows how many children her husband has murdered. If his sharp-tongued sister has ever seen a dragon butchered and picked apart for a physician's shop, even the eggs and dragonets. If his inquisitive brother has ever seen what happens to a land-bound selkie when beset by a pack of hunting hounds.

He wonders if they know the man they call husband and father is known as the Bloody Tyrant, scourge of the Old Religion.

He doesn't think so.


	16. Blood Sports

Autumn is Madoc's favourite season, but he is always and forever grateful for the arrival of spring each year. He doesn't enjoy sneezing every time one of the maids walk past with vases of fresh-cut flowers, but he can suffer even that if it means being at last allowed to go _outside_ again. Being indoors so long, he fears he is soon to lose his wits. Or perhaps commit murder. Of whom is yet to be determined.

Escaping Geoffrey's lessons—Madoc likes reading, but gods' mercy, that man makes it so _dull_—he flees from the library in hopes of reaching the training grounds and watching the knights doing their drills. Father wants him to join the squires soon, even though squires are supposed to be at least three-and-ten.

Speaking of Father, he hears his parents' voices just around the next corner, and he slows to a walk, peering around.

Mother and Father are walking arm-in-arm down the corridor, their backs to him.

"…know that you are inexplicably fond of him," Father is saying with a small shake of his head, "but I tell you, there is something uncanny about that boy, Vivienne. Something…sly."

Ah, they're talking about Arthur. Over the winter, Arthur had proved to be the source of all source of gossip amongst the court, the strange barbarian with the peculiar accent who claimed to be the son of one of the Great Houses' more infamous scions. They _all_ seem to think there's something peculiar about him. Some are kinder than others, but they all say the same thing.

"Uther, you were not fond of Tristan in our youth, and it is fair to say the years have not improved your thinking of him," Mother replies.

"It's nothing to do with Tristan."

Mother gives an unladylike snort. "Oh, yes, I'm certain, just as it has nothing to do with how much the boy resembles—"

"Vivienne." Warning edges Father's tone.

Madoc leaves them before their talking becomes arguing and makes his way down the stairs. He wishes they wouldn't all be so mistrusting of Arthur. Morgana is fond of him, but she's always enjoyed being contrary, enjoyed being the scandal and delight of the realm, especially when it exasperated Father. Madoc thinks he's wonderful.

He doesn't feel much for watching the knights' drill anymore. When he emerges out into the warming sun, he instead makes his way through the courtyard and out to the gardens to where the apple trees are. There's only a few of them, more for the decoration of their blossoms than anything, but they do bear an abundance of fruit. As he ambles beneath the branches, peering up to see if there's any apples ripe enough to be eaten, a throat being cleared loudly startles a yelp out of him, whirling on heel so fast he nearly unbalances.

"How did you get _in_ here?" he exclaims, heart settling back into its proper place.

Leaning against the shadow-dappled wall, Arthur doesn't reply, but the corner of his mouth curls up. His eyes flicker up at the wall behind him.

Madoc stares at the wall for a moment. The stones are too smooth to climb bare-handed, and it stands too high to merely jump…but there are barrels on the other side of the wall, empty ones taken from the cellar to be scoured and repurposed. He grins in understanding. "Do you make a habit of climbing into other people's gardens?" he asks, walking over to his…good-cousin? Is there such a term for one who is related only by way of marriage to a woman now-deceased? Maybe he'll ask Geoffrey next time.

Arthur shrugs one shoulder and draws the bone-hilt dagger from his belt, using it to pare off a small piece of the apple in his hand, eating it carefully from the blade. "I was bored." Her jerks his chin in the direction of the stables. "What's all the noise?"

"Prince Foxface is arranging a hunt with some of the knights," he answers, leaning his back against the wall next to Arthur. "He says I'm welcome to join."

"And will you?"

Madoc toes at the ground. "Perhaps, if it please."

Steel winks sun-bright as Arthur flips the dagger around in hand, catches it by the blade, and thumps him atop the head with the hilt. "I'm no peacock to mince words with, pip. Try again."

He grins even as he rubs at the smarting spot on his head, then folds his arms, shrugging one shoulder even though he's not supposed to. Rude, his etiquette teacher says. "I don't really want to, but I should."

"Why should you if you don't want to?"

"He'll be my good-brother in a year. And it is important to be amongst the people, as they will one day be my people." Even though all the knights like to jest about how small and bird-boned he is and don't even bother to mask their laughter when he's around. Urien does it too, except he's cleverer about it, turning the words all around so it sounds like he's being kind when he isn't. Not to mention he's not allowed to have his own crossbow after what happened with the goats at the last fair—even though that hadn't been at all his fault and an accident besides—so he'll just be there to listen to them prattle on and drink.

Arthur is quiet for a long moment, paring off another piece of apple. "Well, it sounds half-mad to me, but then again, everything you people do is half-mad to me," he replies at last, gesturing with the dagger, and Madoc snorts. "I take it the peacocks will be keeping their own company?"

"Of course." Why would any commoner be allowed to accompany them on a hunting trip?

"Mm." Arthur pushes away from the wall, takes a few steps, draws back his arm, and pitches the apple core an impressive distance over the wall; there's a short yelp of surprise, followed by a muffled curse. Smirking, he impales another of the fruits from one of the lower branches with his dagger, then starts in the direction of the stables. Bemused, Madoc follows him.

Under the supervision of Tyr, the rather plump son of the stablemaster, a handful of grooms are making ready horses for the hunting party. Madoc recognises Urien's glossy chestnut, Leon's handsome dun, Accolon's black mare amongst them, though the others he doesn't recognise on sight. Tyr gives a little start when he turns to see Arthur suddenly beside him. "Oh! Forgive me, my lord, I-I did not see you," he stammers out. Clearly he also finds Arthur 'sly and uncanny,' though Madoc still doesn't think it so. When Arthur doesn't say anything, only raises one brow, Tyr swallows hard enough that both his chins wobble, turning nervous eyes down to Madoc. "Ah, your highness, have you decided to accompany Prince Urien and the hunt?" he asks, still flicking uneasy glances towards Arthur.

"He has," Arthur answers for him. "So am I. Where is my horse? I'll saddle her myself."

Tyr points further into the stables, and Madoc follows alongside the young man as he strides over. "You'll accompany me on the hunt?" he asks.

Arthur starts slicing the apple he still carries into large pieces, feeding them to the pretty bay mare. "Aye, I will. I've the right, do I not?" he asks.

"You do." Even though he calls them peacocks and makes faces at the ways of the court, Arthur _is_ a du Bois, which means he's a nobleman too. Not a very good one, mayhaps, but he is. Still, he knows that Arthur isn't fond of the knights or really anyone that isn't Merlin or Lancelot, which means he isn't coming along for the pleasure of their company. Madoc toes at a bit of loose straw on the floor. "Thank you," he murmurs.

Arthur gives him one of those quiet, complicated looks he has, full of so many things its impossible to name them all. Nudging him with an elbow, he presses the apple and dagger to his hands. "Finish giving her that, I'll get her saddle."

Grasping the warm bone hilt, he starts slicing off large pieces, feeding them to the mare. Her soft lips tickle his palm, velvety muzzle nudging him. "What's her name?" Madoc asks, gazing up into the gentle warmth of her dark eyes.

"She is not mine to name." Arthur makes handy work of the saddle's buckles, periodically stroking a hand over the mare's neck in reassurance. "I say 'my horse' as I would say 'my friend.' I ride at her grace, nothing else."

"Oh." Madoc laughs softly as she noses at him in silent request, and he spread his empty hands. "That's all of it." She whickers and tosses her mane.

Arthur chuckles as he ducks back around to stand by her head, easing the bridle on. "Here. Like this." Cupping her muzzle, he lowers his head to hers and blows softly into her nostrils. "They like to get one's scent."

Madoc imitates him, standing up on his toes to scratch her forelock. "Will you bring your bow and hunt with the others?" He can only imagine the looks on some of their faces when they see Arthur's yew longbow beside their heavy oak crossbows.

"I don't hunt for sport, but I'll have it with me." One corner of his mouth curls up, flashing his crooked teeth. "In case of foxes."

Madoc guffaws loud enough to make some of the horses shy in their stalls.

* * *

Madoc's own prediction proves true. The hunt is miserable, or rather, he is.

Foxface and the rest of the peacocks—he's taken to calling them by Arthur's little moniker as well, fitting as it is—are having a grand time, wagering on their hounds and their own prowess, passing around wineskins, telling stories and jests they wouldn't speak in a lady's hearing. Not a single one of them says so much as a word to him.

He rides well behind the rest of the party on Snowdrop, the pretty white filly that'd been his natality gift last year, listening to them carry on.

"Insufferable lot, aren't they?" Arthur remarks beside him, his bay keeping to Snowdrop's languid pace. Whilst Merlin and Morgana have colluded to wrestle him into proper garb before the court, he's attired himself in the well-worn forest greens he'd been wearing when he first arrived in Camelot. They suit him better than cambric and linen, and with his longbow over one shoulder, he looks like he belongs there more than any of the other courtiers in their bright colours.

"Always." Snowdrop pricks her ears as the hounds lay chase to a flushed hare, vying to drive it back towards their master, and Madoc draws rein for a moment to watch, soothing her with a gentle pat.

A footservant hands Foxface his crossbow, an elegant weapon inlaid with pearl and silver gilt. His shot goes wide, and Sir Lamorak takes the kill. There's a round of approval and good-natured complaints. A few coins change hands. One servant retrieves the hare for the game bag. Another goes to hunt for spent bolts in the underbrush.

He casts a glance up. "This isn't hunting as you know, is it?"

Arthur grunts in his throat. "Taking joy in another creature's fear and panic is not my way."

Ahead of them, there's a great clamour from the party—despite the noise, they've apparently spotted a hart ahead. The hounds are slipped from their braces as the hunters give chase. Madoc grips the reins tighter, about to urge Snowdrop on to keep up with them, but he notices that Arthur is in no such rush, hands still resting on the saddle horn in front of him. He eases back, gentling his grip.

"Blessed silence," Arthur remarks once the party's noise fades, then he turns his gaze back down to Madoc, flashing that little half-smile of his. "How long do you think it will take them to notice we aren't with them?"

"It depends on whether or not they catch the hart," he answers with a grin of his own. "What do you want to do, then?"

Arthur shrugs a shoulder. "It's a fine day. Let's ride a bit, wait for them to come back around."

Madoc perks up in the saddle. "Will you tell me about where you lived?" He'd been promised the details some time ago, yet they've had no opportunity for such a discussion. Arthur gets all close-mouthed around the other courtiers, restricting his answers to as few words as possible.

"Aye, if you'd like."

They ride at a languid pace between the trees, tender new leaves casting green-tinted shadows down over them as they talk. Madoc tries to imagine living in a _cave_. It sounds a bit awful to him, but there's an ache of longing in Arthur's voice, as though he would like nothing more than to return there. The rest of it sounds rather splendid—searching for cockles on the beach and watching seals play, climbing up trees and shore cliffs, exploring tidal caves and wandering the forest at leisure. "I'd like to get away from my tutors sometimes," he remarks.

Arthur snorts. "Don't count on it. I had my own teacher, pip. Twice a week, she would come to me and give me lessons, too."

"Oh. Why?" It sounds strange to him that Arthur would have to bother with lessons if he lived by himself in a forest cave. It wasn't as though he had any need for it.

"She was a friend of my mother, didn't want me growing up with no more wits than a stump," Arthur replies with a shrug. Wry humour sparkles in his eyes as he adds, "And you and I have been given very different lessons, have no doubt."

"What did you—what's that?" Madoc asks, gazing upwards. Just off towards the left, there's a strip of brightly-coloured cloth tied around a branch, fluttering gently in the breeze. Just beyond it, he can see more of the cloth strips. Curious, he turns Snowdrop towards them and nudges her forward, hearing Arthur's bay follow close behind. The ground slopes downwards into a hollow boasting a small pool fed by a trickle of water. In the middle of it, there's a conical cairn built of stacked stone and branches, adorned all over with those cloth scraps. Madoc dismounts and wanders closer, leaning close to study it. All around the base of the strange little cairn, small bowls are tucked into niches. Some are caked with some strange residue that might've been milk, others bear the petrified remains of small cakes, rendered hard as river-stones.

"Do not disturb that, Madoc." Arthur's voice rings strong and solemn in the hush, more severe than he's ever heard it.

Madoc snatches his hand back from the cloth scrap he was about to touch, taking a step back for good measure. "Why, what will happen?" He casts a glance around the hollow, adorned with its fluttering scraps, then back at the cairn with its offerings, and he takes another step back. "Is it…_magic?"_ he asks, lowering his voice.

Arthur comes to his side on foot, leaving his bay with Snowdrop. "This is a sacred place," he says, not really answering him, "and no mortal, not even princes, should seek to strong-arm the gods."

"But is it magic?"

He cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowed slightly. "What if it is?"

Something in the other man's voice makes him take another step back. "Magic is—is _evil._ It corrupts people's hearts and twists them against themselves and everything else that is good. It is heresy and madness and wrong," he answers immediately. Answers, and tries to ignore the bitter taste in the back of his mouth, the clench of shame and guilt in his heart, even as a breeze flickers through, fluttering all the scarves in protest.

"Is that so?"

"It is!"

Arthur's eyes darken, mouth thinning, but then he gives himself a small all-over shake, like a bird resettling its feathers. "I asked _you,_ not the King. Try again," he says.

He opens his mouth to insist that it is his answer, then closes it again without a sound. Looking down, he twists his hands together and stares at his own fingers. The unseen clasp in his chest squeezes tighter.

"Madoc."

There is something so terribly _understanding_ in Arthur's voice, something _knowing,_ and he sinks his teeth into his lower lip until he tastes blood, mingling with the sickly bitterness. Unable to raise his gaze, he shakes his head once. "There's nothing else to say."

A soft rustle of movement, and then strong hands clasp over his shoulders; Madoc jerks his gaze up, surprised to see Arthur gone to a knee before him, their gazes almost level. "If ever there is…I'm here."

Madoc swallows hard past the blood-taste in his mouth and nods.

"Good lad. Come sit down a moment, then we'll go back." Taking to his feet again, he moves his hand to the nape of Madoc's neck, callused and warm, guiding him away from the cairn and towards the placid little pool at the other end of the hollow. They sit down on a boulder half grown over with lichens, the top of it worn smooth from so many others before them sitting here, leaving their tributes at the cairn and tying their prayers to the branches in scraps of fabric.

They sit in quiet, broken by the soft trickle of water and the flitters of birdsong, the snuffling of the horses. Madoc stares into the pool, watching the dappled sun play off the water. And seeing something move beneath the surface. His breath catches as thing in the pool raises its head—a snake.

"A-Arthur?"

"Peace. We're in his home, he's only curious."

Madoc swallows hard as the snake makes its way out of the pool onto the damp-soft ground, winding towards them in a sinuous ribbon of blue-green-white. A part of him admires the serpent's camouflage. As it approaches his boots, a tremor slides down his back, an urge to flee. But Arthur is unmoving and calm, and he suddenly scorns to show fear next to him. He is a sovereign prince of Camelot. He'll not be shamed by this creature before him.

The snake reaches his boots and investigates with the barest flicker of its forked tongue. Madoc represses a shiver, but Arthur extends an arm over him, offering his hand as if to a courtier. The snake's head lifts; the tongue flickers over his fingertips. Then, with liquid grace, it makes a neat about-face and slithers back towards the pool.

"It paid us homage," he whispers.

That earns him a loud snort. "Like hell. He decided we were too big to eat. And see? He's gone. We offered him no harm, and he gave us none in return."

A distant horn sounds.

"I imagine that's Foxface and the rest, finally come looking for us," Arthur remarks with derision and pushes to his feet. "Come on, pip. Let's go back. They don't need to come here."

Madoc nods in fervent agreement, hurrying back to Snowdrop. They make their way back out of the hollow, leaving the pool and the cairn behind. As they reach the top of the rise, he cannot help but to glance back, taking in the tranquil sight once more, and it is then he sees the woman.

She's sitting on the same boulder he and Arthur had just vacated, gazing contentedly into the pool. A small child sleeps on her lap, a little boy, tousled head resting on his mother's breast.

For a moment, he wonders where she'd come from, how she'd approached without himself or Arthur hearing, but then he understands what it is he is looking at. Madoc feels an unexpected flicker of envy; the spirit's face is serene, untroubled by mortal entanglements.

"Madoc," Arthur says gently, and he brings his gaze around to the other man. "The others are off that way. I can hear the hounds."

"Right. Lead on. I'm coming." As he nudges Snowdrop into a trot after the bay, he glances over his shoulder. The woman is gone.

_Yes,_ he thinks. _This place is indeed sacred._


End file.
